


How Long?

by camerasparring



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Break Up, Chair Sex, Divorce, Emotional Abuse, Hallway sex, M/M, Pre-Slash, Separations, Sherlock-centric, The Blind Banker, marriage AU, uncomfortable sexual situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camerasparring/pseuds/camerasparring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not long after meeting John, Sherlock receives an email from an old acquaintance. Unfortunately, Sherlock has neglected to tell anyone he was once married.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from the kink_meme, asking for a Sebastian/Sherlock marriage story.

Sherlock doesn’t realize he’s been staring at John’s computer screen for twenty-five minutes until his eyes begin to sting. He blinks them a few times to no avail, and shuts the damned contraption before it gets the better of him. Briefly, he considers immediately popping it back open, but then remembers that he possesses some level of self-control. A small level at the moment, but a level nonetheless.

Pressing his hands together and resting them against his lips, he takes in a long, deep breath. _Sebastian_. That _idiot_. Not only does he not phone Sherlock for two full months, but then determines it’s best to break that rather awkward and unnecessary silence with an e-mail. Oh, but not just any e-mail, not a catch-up e-mail or an “I’m concerned for your well-being” e-mail, but an e-mail asking for a favor. As though he ever held respect for Sherlock’s…abilities. Sherlock twines his fingers together, twisting them against each other, and momentarily considers dislocating all of them. That would create quite the excuse. _Apologies, Sebastian, but I’m not what one would call “able-bodied” at the moment_. It may be worth the pain. He shakes his head, forcing the absurdity from his mind.

He re-opens the laptop.

 

_Sherlock,_

_I know we’ve not been speaking, but there’s been an incident at the bank. I was hoping you could lend a bit of insight. You always were decent at these sorts of things._

_I’d appreciate it if you’d stop by._

_Best,_

_Seb_

Best. Bloody _best_. Decent. _Decent._ He feels the rage burn through to his fingertips. Obviously, he’s typed decent as a synonym for fantastic, brilliant, exceptional. He’s just misunderstood the meaning. Why? Why is this affecting him so deeply? He wants to shake the feeling from his entire body, shivering it off like a layer of water. But he’s soaked to the bone. Surely the two months he’s spent completely surrounded, enveloped, drowning in John has left him sensitive to anything but an excessive amount of exaggerated yet shockingly accurate compliments. _Decent_. He’ll keep John impressed for the next twenty-four hours just to erase that word’s implications from his memory.

Another twenty minutes of uninterrupted glaring and John is hiking his way up the stairs. Sherlock shuts his eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of John’s deliberate steps and wallowing in the decision he’s made. John’s irritated, as usual, that his property has been, again, usurped. Sherlock ignores him, as usual and again. He wishes he could do the same with the e-mail he’s been reading obsessively for the past hour. It’s clear and concise, something Sebastian never fails to follow-through on in real life. _No_ , Sherlock seethes silently _, I’m not going to analyze this again_. He abruptly stands, causing John a moment of unrest before Sherlock heads toward the exit.

“I need to go to the bank.”

The husband calls.

\--

Sherlock ran speedily down the halls, gripping his books in his hands. They threatened to spill with every jerk of his body, but he only needed a few more minutes. He was almost there.

When he saw the door, 56A, he inwardly sighed, and began mentally preparing for his first class. Chemistry. Easy. He had memorized the periodic table by the time he entered primary school and had read the textbook twice through, already. It frustrated him that the class was obligatory, but he had been told, an irritating number of times actually, that in university, these required classes were not oddities. Sherlock learning something in school he already knew and had practically used thousands of times, that was not an oddity either. He supposed he’d survive another few years of it.

Entering the classroom, he spotted four first-years, three second-years and one very hesitant third-year. The broad shoulders, tired slouch, and slightly-more-put-together-than-a-first-year attire was quite obvious. Sherlock seated himself in the corner, having decided that this older man was his longest shot at an acquaintance and would therefore remain pleasantly silent for the length of the period.

His previous rush was evidently unwarranted, and slowly the rest of the enrolled students filed in, accompanied by the professor two minutes before he began to speak. _Lecture_ , rather. Sherlock kept his mouth shut when the girl next to him scratched at what could only be the result of a one-night stand, and locked his jaw permanently when the professor inaccurately identified Bismuth as a Halogen. He would _not_ be attending this class again, save for the examinations. _Don’t correct the professor_ , Mycroft had told him. Not that he was in the habit of following his elder brother’s commands, but he’d heed his warnings on the first day, _the only day_ , in lieu of revealing his true and overly observant personality without any air of mystery.

When the hideous drone of man standing at the front of the room refrained from plaguing them with his words any longer, Sherlock bolted from his seat. Unfortunately, he didn’t evade everyone in the room.

“Oi!” he heard behind him. He could tell from the low timbre and accent that his deductions about the third-year next to him were, unfortunately, inaccurate. He turned around, a bit curious but a bit more bored.

“Yes?”

“What were you on about in there?” the man said. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“On about? I don’t believe I uttered a word, against my better judgment.”  The man smiled. Sherlock saw something behind it, and he would use the term _sinister_ if it hadn’t had such melodramatic implications.

“All your…squirming about. It wasn’t boredom, I can tell boredom apart from _that_.” He twitched his hand at Sherlock and pressed the other one to his hip. For the first time, Sherlock noticed how fit he really was. He paused before a stream of words left his lips.

“You play rugby on weekends, but don’t let your parents know. They’d be far from chuffed if they knew their first-born was getting himself beaten bloody every week. You had a girlfriend until last week, when you dumped her because you thought you could do better. You’re taking beginner’s Chemistry because you played around your first two years, too much drinking, not enough studying, as any good Uni boy does, and now you’ve realized you need your degree to make big bucks, something in finance, I assume,” Sherlock stopped, remembering he’d neglected the man’s initial inquiry. “It wasn’t boredom, you’re quite right, just over-stimulation. I could see everything about that professor from his wife’s egregious dye-job to his sister’s bout with alcohol, but what really drove me mad was that he couldn’t even bear to get the bloody elements correct.”

The man stared. His jaw was slackened, and after a moment he rubbed at it.

“So,” Sherlock said, “my utter irritation at incompetence would explain my ‘ _squirming_.’” He flicked up air quotes, and watched the grin reappear on the man’s face. It seemed almost familiar now.

“Mad, you are,” he finally said, a chuckle buried below his voice. He bit his lip and gave Sherlock a one-over, prodding with his eyes. Sherlock wondered if this was what people called a ‘meet-cute.’ _Dull_.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be attending lectures anymore. You’ll be rid of my madness soon enough.” Sherlock turned to walk away, when he felt a forceful hand grip at his bicep. When he looked back, their eyes locked.

“I guess I should tell you now, then. You seem to know I’m graduating and I need the marks to get out of here. No coincidence it seems that a bloody Chemistry genius is standing across from me.” His teeth shone through his lips, the whiteness practically emitting radiation. “I’m Sebastian, and I think we’ll be studying together.”

Sherlock nodded. It seemed he _had_ made a friend.

\--

Sherlock’s leg bounces at an impossible pace, and his heart follows suit. He sits in an uncomfortably large chair facing Sebastian’s office, located centrally in his ‘client room.’ Evidently, their relationship downgraded as soon as he stepped into the building. Pressing his palms together, Sherlock remembers the feel of his wedding ring. It was always such a clunky thing, he was glad to be rid of it in a way. That didn’t stop Sherlock from considering himself married. They were _separated_ now, as Sebastian so eloquently pointed out several times before going on a long Sherlock-holiday. He had removed the ring for posterity and to avoid questioning or inquiry, particularly from all of Scotland Yard. He still finds himself rubbing at the spot on a daily basis. Old habits, and all that.

John reads an old issue of _The Daily Mail_ for a brief moment before huffing in disgust and tossing it back on the wooden table in front of them. He notices Sherlock’s changed mood but doesn’t respond past more than a quick flick of his eyebrows. Sherlock senses him about to say something when Sebastian emerges from behind his closed door.

He looks ill-rested, tanned and… attractive. Sherlock swallows in anticipation before taking Sebastian’s offered handshake. 

“Sherlock,” Seb says, a smug grin glued to his face. They latch eyes for a moment until John interrupts with his mannerly insistence.

“Uh, John Watson,” John mumbles, awkwardly shaking Sebastian’s hand and waiting for a response.

“Sorry. Sebastian Wilkes. Sherlock’s, eh,” he pauses, flicking a finger between Sherlock and himself. Sherlock takes advantage of the hesitation.

“Old friend from University. Haven’t seen each other in years,” Sherlock rattles off quickly. Seb nods slightly before flashing another smile. “Sebastian e-mailed me, requiring assistance. Some sort of situation? Vandalism, it seems. And right after your big trip. Too bad.” That wipes the pleased arrogance right from his face, and Sherlock continues. “John’s my…”

“Friend.” Sherlock turns to face John as he speaks. “And colleague, o’course,” John finishes, and if Sebastian weren’t piercing him with a jealous stare, Sherlock may have smiled.

“You always did need an audience, didn’t you?” Sebastian says, running his tongue over his teeth and mimicking his previous smile. It’s colder this time. “Always figured that’s why you kept me ‘round.” Sherlock can practically feel John’s hand tense at Sebastian’s words. _Bastard_.

“Shall we?” Sherlock lifts a hand and points it toward Sebastian’s office. John leads them inside, with Sherlock, his jaw clenching, trailing the group.

Two hours later, Sherlock is gliding down the stairs into the bank lobby, John in tow. Suddenly, John is right behind him, nearly breathing down his neck.

“You know him from University?” he asks, and Sherlock turns his head slightly.

“Hmm? Oh. Yes,” Sherlock replies, trying to seem non-committal. John shakes his head as they walk through the exit.

“Bit of a tosser, really.”

This time, Sherlock lets himself smile.  

\--

Sherlock found Sebastian nearly impossible the first few months. He barely understood simple chemistry, and Sherlock routinely forgot that this course was for beginners. Seb was careful in reminding him often. His reminders were commonly attached to the end of insults with one of his famed smiles as a cherry-on-top. But as the days and weeks wore on, Sherlock warmed to their budding friendship. They would sit in the common room between Sebastian’s classes, pouring over books. Sherlock enjoyed time mastering new sonatas and even composing while Sebastian struggled to comprehend new theories or concepts. Conversations unrelated to schoolwork cropped up over time. Sherlock talked mostly about errant observations he had made, though eventually, Sebastian started discussing more personal topics.

Sebastian had come from a wealthy family, much like Sherlock and a good percentage of students at their school. He had two sisters, both younger, both a bit of trouble. He was the good child, which Sherlock found increasingly harder to believe, and had always achieved the grades and recognition that was expected. His mother was immensely proud of his success while his father focused solely on the uncomfortable situation he and Sebastian had found themselves in the day after the boy’s fifteenth birthday, when he discovered him curled up with a very muscular and very male peer behind a previously locked door. It seems Sherlock’s initial assessment had incorrectly identified the gender of Sebastian’s previous companion. Seb had come out soon after, and while his mother reaffirmed her ever-undying love and admiration, his father refused to look him in the eye unless the time particularly called for it, such as a graduation or a family holiday. Sherlock didn’t have the heart to tell Sebastian he had ‘father issues’ written all over him.

It seemed they had a lot in common.

Sherlock told him more than he had told anyone, and after six months, the sting of discomfort that accompanied that revelation began to fade. Mother was over-bearing yet intellectually affectionate. Father was mostly absent, save for the over-arching air of disapproval he managed to paint during his few appearances. Mycroft, his eldest brother, was, unfortunately, a _very_ over-powering presence in his life, and had inserted himself into Sherlock’s business whenever he deemed it necessary. Sherlock appreciated, though he would never use _that_ word in front of Mycroft, the knowledge and technique his brother had passed onto him, but he ultimately remained a day-to-day nuisance, if not, realistically, the only friend Sherlock had ever retained. And that retention could only be chalked up to familial obligation. That was, until he met Sebastian.

Sebastian’s other friends knew nothing of Sherlock’s existence, a feat to which the older man had gone to great lengths to achieve. It was nothing personal, he asserted one day after a bout of studying, it’s just that they wouldn’t really understand. Sherlock wasn’t stupid. He knew he was difficult to spend time with, and was quite surprised Sebastian had stayed this long, even if he had ulterior motives in the form of a future career. But Sherlock appreciated the company, no matter the reason. He found himself disappointed when their study sessions were cancelled because Sebastian was going out with friends or had a date. Uncharacteristically, the latter disappointed him a tad bit more.

Touching had become progressively more frequent with every new meeting, something that caught Sherlock completely off-guard and left him feeling constantly prickly and unsure. Sebastian had initiated it each time, a hand on Sherlock’s arm, their shins pressed together for hours in the library, a light push of his hand through Sherlock’s unruly black curls. Sherlock’s heart, previously solemn and selective in its activity, found itself running marathons with the introduction of these signs of affection.

Sherlock marveled at Sebastian’s smooth voice, his perfectly coiffed hair, and stubborn determination to get a passing grade in Chemistry. He succeeded in time, and Sherlock felt a twinge of what could only be described as pride.

Sebastian begrudgingly attended his graduation ceremony at the behest of his mother. Sherlock hadn’t planned on attending. Those things were always exceedingly boring and he’d been forced to sit through Mycroft’s many years ago. _Finished in a year and a half_ , Mother had raved, _he’s really turned out to have all the potential I first saw in him_. That was enough to turn him off any and all similarly celebratory ceremonies. Sebastian had still taken the time to eloquently un-invite him, thus cementing their secret… whatever-it-was.

When he showed up in Sherlock’s doorway soon after, dressed in a green button-down and a faded pair of jeans, Sherlock’s heart thudded painfully in his chest cavity. He sat up quickly on his bed, nudging his bookmark into place. _Anatomy_ could wait.

“Goodbye, uni,” Sebastian started. His smile was suspiciously absent. “Mum was driving me absolutely nutty. Thought I’d stop by.”

“Congratulations,” Sherlock said, his voice smaller than he would have liked. “Glad to finally be rid of this place?” He scooted back on his bed, feet dangling off the edge. Sebastian waved his head side to side, hesitant.

“Y’know, thought I would be. But walking up there, getting my diploma, I could only think…” he stopped, fingers pressed against his lower jaw. Sherlock swallowed. “I wish you’d been there.” A silence followed.

“You said…”

“I know what I said,” Sebastian interrupted, his voice bordering on angry. Sherlock’s mouth hung open. “But now I think… I think I might want to give this a go.”

Sebastian slunk across the room quickly, seating himself on the bed next to Sherlock, who was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the change in arrangement. He closed his eyes in an attempt to catch his breath, suddenly feeling Sebastian’s hand graze over his gently. _This isn’t happening, this doesn’t happen, not to me, not to_ , and his mind stopped immediately when another set of lips met his.

They sat there for twenty minutes, mouths moving slowly against one another, Sherlock unaware of where to place his hands and Sebastian periodically swiping his tongue over the other man’s bottom lip. When Seb pulled away at last, giving them both a second to breathe and reboot, Sherlock remembered the implications of graduating.

“I suppose I won’t be hearing from you after tonight, then. I mean, if ‘giving this a go’ means what I gather it means,” he said, running a nervous hand over Sebastian’s knee. The older man’s brow lowered.

“I got a job in Central London. S’not too far. I was hoping we could…” He tickled Sherlock’s thigh with the tips of his fingers, biting his lip.

“Long-distance?” Sherlock pulled away.

“It’s hardly long. And it’s only two years. More like one, with how you’re going.” Sebastian had put only a small amount of thought into this, Sherlock could tell. Probably only the moment between “I’d like to get away from my mother” and “I’d like to get laid” were spent actually _thinking_.

“This isn’t just…your last hurrah, as it were?” With that, Sebastian removed his hand from Sherlock’s leg and adopted a rather shocked expression. _Well_ , Sherlock thought, _maybe this is real_.

“No one at school knows I’m gay, Sherlock. No one but you. Coming out to your mates is different than coming out to your parents. You think I’d run up here right after starting my ‘new chapter’ as Mum calls it, to snog you for twenty minutes, just for laughs?” Sebastian huffed. Sherlock knew Sebastian could do better than him. But for the moment, he was content in believing that they were suited for each other.

He smiled and Sebastian followed suit. They leaned into each other once more, and Sherlock proceeded to let Seb kiss him for the remainder of the day.

When they finally did get to the sex part, three months later, Sherlock felt a bit hurried but surprised all the same that Sebastian seemed to find him desirable.

 _This could work_ , Sherlock thought one night, staring down at Sebastian lying in his bed, _it doesn’t seem_ too _dull_.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock tingles with a strange mix of emotions as he and John approach the door to the restaurant. Sebastian’s secretary had been extremely hesitant in revealing the whereabouts of her employer, and Sherlock was not about to tell the tale of his failed marriage to some woman he didn’t know just to deliver a piece of news. Instead, John was able to worm the information out of her via some very coy flirting and exchange of phone numbers. He assured Sherlock he was genuinely interested as they hopped into a cab, but failed to enter the digits into his mobile during the duration of the quiet ride. Sherlock will allow him to believe he hasn’t just used a pretty blonde for his own benefit.

Sherlock spots Sebastian lounging back comfortably in his chair, rambling on incessantly and attempting to shove an expensive steak into his mouth at the same time. He leads John over, trying to remain unseen. Hopefully, he thinks, Sebastian will refrain from blowing his cover once again.

Sebastian had adapted famously to Sherlock’s denial of their intimate relationship during his and John’s introduction. He let it slide with a wink and a few virulent remarks, but John failed to pick up on anything unusual. Perhaps for the first time, Sherlock was the one unwilling to admit to their history. Sherlock had lied to save himself an uncomfortable next two or three days, during which John would have no doubt prodded him with endless questions and told everyone under the sun that the world’s only consulting detective was a married man. Instead, they spent that time running around the city, collecting evidence and dealing with the disappointing yet customary amount of incompetence.

Sherlock was too wrapped up in this case to really ponder the relationship between him and his estranged husband. Too busy to remember the way Sebastian used to press his hand to the small of Sherlock’s back when they were in public. Too busy to reminisce over the early days, when the two of them, young and in lust, would lie in bed for hours, soaking in each other’s newly charted bodies and conversing about anything that came to mind. Too busy to stare at the wedding ring hidden in the top drawer next to his bed. And certainly too busy to realize that he still had feelings for the stupid git. No, Sherlock was simply too professional to let his personal life seep into his work.

Before they reach the table populated completely with bankers, including _his_ banker, John catches his attention.

“Sherlock,” he whispers, stopping their swift movement through the crowds of tables and dining patrons. Sherlock turns to face him. “All right?” he asks, widening his eyes just a bit in question. Sherlock hesitates for only a moment, but even that seems too long. He’s given himself away.

He nods brusquely, but John’s eyes continue to bore into him. They’re strong and sad and worried, but Sherlock takes comfort in knowing that they’re there.

For a moment, it seems as though John is touching him. As though John’s hand rests lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder, or his fingers are squeezing his wrist to assure Sherlock he’s there. But John’s eyes are the only thing on him. His deep blue eyes makes Sherlock feel John’s presence more than a touch.

They hardly ever touch, really. Sherlock doesn’t mind touching John. Actually, it’s the first time since Sebastian that he hasn’t actively avoided touch. It just doesn’t often occur to them to touch. Occasionally, John will let his fingers dance on Sherlock’s arm while getting his attention or Sherlock will grasp John’s shoulders at once to force him into some task, but in general their touches are few and far between. Instead, Sherlock finds himself communicating seamlessly with John through pointed stares or deliberate glances. John speaks easily with his eyes, and their connection via sight came just as naturally and quickly as did their slide into living and working together.

“Fine,” Sherlock says finally, and although John knows it’s something of a lie, he lets them continue to Sebastian’s table.

Twenty minutes later, they’ve been ushered not-so-quietly away from Sebastian’s work friends, a concept with which Sherlock is all too familiar. John leans against the tiled wall, listening to Sebastian speak. He’s disappointed. Frustrated. Sherlock can’t blame him, though he didn’t expect much more out of Seb.

“Well they’ve got it wrong, Sebastian, he was murdered,” Sherlock says. Sebastian pauses, hesitation circling in his head. He walks slowly over to Sherlock, resting a hand against his forearm. Sherlock flinches, his eyes darting to John.

“I’m sorry.” Sebastian catches Sherlock’s eyes with his own for a moment before glancing down at where their bodies meet. “You know you go a bit off on these things,” he says with a smile.

“I do _not_ go off.” Sherlock shrugs away from the other man’s touch, surveying John’s reactions once again. John remains tight-lipped, his arms crossed, his eyes darting between the scene in front of him and the sink beside him. They both watch as Sebastian backs away, nodding slightly. “Seb,” Sherlock starts before Sebastian raises a hand.

“I hired you to do a job. Don’t get distracted.” His husband exits the room in a blur. He knows what Sebastian thinks, and he saw it as soon as John offered him a handshake. Sherlock wonders if it’s possible to be jealous when you’ve ended a relationship and haven’t spoken to your ex in months. If it is, he decides, then it’s certainly not logical.

“And I thought all bankers were supposed to be heartless bastards,” John says. Sherlock wants to smile, but all that comes is a rather uncomfortable grimace. John walks over to stand in front of him, their eyes meeting in the process. After a second of concentration on the matching set of pupils across from him, he straightens up, nodding.

John nods back.

\--

Sherlock’s eyes clapped open as soon as Sebastian re-entered the flat. He was put out, face red, breathing heavy and sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

“Mind helping a bit?” he asked. Sherlock sighed deliberately.

“I’m thinking.” Sebastian shrugged.

“You can think anytime. We’ve twelve more boxes downstairs and I’m not making mum carry any of the heavy ones,” Seb sauntered to the couch, pulling at Sherlock’s arm. “C’mon, you’re not an invalid. You were quite eager this morning,” he said with a wink, leaning down to press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock rolled his eyes and begrudgingly peeled himself from the sofa.

“I needed to make sure the new bed was in working order.”

“Three times?” Sebastian smiled. Sherlock paused for a moment, swallowing his retort before the conversation took a turn toward explicit. Not that he minded usually, but the little old lady coming up the stairs would be flabbergasted to know her son had already been thoroughly shagged three times before tea.

“Two boxes.” Holding up two fingers in Sebastian’s face, he planted another kiss to his forehead. He walked to the door, flicking a piece of chipped paint back against the wall. First day and there’s already a chip. How promising.

“Oh, dear, I think I’ll have a sit down,” Mrs. Wilkes breathed after conquering the final stair. Clutching the walls as she went, Sebastian’s mother moved shakily to the couch. The slightly ragged yet surprisingly comfortable hand-me-down remained the only piece of furniture the two boys had collected for their new flat. Mycroft had procured it from thin air, although Sherlock was suspicious to accept it until Seb convinced him that it couldn’t possibly cause them to contract tetanus. Sebastian helped his mother, standing over her once she was seated.

“I am glad you boys were able to find a nice place to stay until you’ve saved a bit more.” She smiled, and Sherlock could see his boyfriend mirrored in her face. They’d only told her a few weeks ago about their romantic attachment, though it had stretched on for a long time before that.

After Sebastian’s visit to his dorm following graduation, Sherlock had seen him regularly: every weekend for almost two years. Sebastian had been unwilling to apply any meaning to his visits until one particularly long night. Seb had shown up at Sherlock’s door completely pissed, accompanied by the odor of gin and aggressively adamant hands, bent on making his younger boyfriend come off in his pants. Sherlock refused him gently, undressed him, washed the errant stains from his clothing and eventually rubbed his back while he vomited into the waist-bin beside Sherlock’s bed. It was the first time Sherlock had ever taken care of someone before. It was the first time he ever _had_ someone to take care of.

Something switched on in Sebastian’s brain the next morning, and a few weeks later, he muttered _I love you_ under his breath while Sherlock was peering into his microscope, barely paying attention. Considering there was no one else in the room, Sherlock assumed he was on the receiving end of the declaration and returned the gesture a few days later. Seb had only repeated himself once or twice since then, but Sherlock had never been one for lovey-dovey sentiment. They settled into a routine that included meals together, occasional walks, conversations about Sherlock’s studies and Sebastian’s job and, of course, as much sex as possible. But that had started much before any type of commitment.

Sex was confusing to Sherlock at first. He didn’t enjoy being naïve, and it was a topic which had previously confounded him. He picked it up in no time, finding erogenous zones, responding to changes in pulse and pupil dilation. At first he had been keen on documenting his observations aloud, but Sebastian continued to scold him into silence until he had effectively learned his lesson.

Sherlock had graduated early and with honors, as expected, and Sebastian, at first tentative, had eventually taken to the idea of moving in together somewhere near Central London. They found a flat that was reasonably priced, with a kitchen big enough to store some of Sherlock’s new equipment, gifted to him by his parents as a graduation present, and the bedroom, though small, fit their bed and a small table which held mostly condoms, lubrication and Sebastian’s socks.

It was just them. Once Sebastian’s mother left, that is.

It took her a few hours, but eventually Sebastian and Sherlock settled onto their new couch, pressed together from shoulder to foot while trying to resist another trip to the bedroom. Right when Sherlock thought maybe their efforts were all for naught, not that he minded, the phone on the wall chimed. He had all but forgotten it was there. Sebastian sighed, lifting himself from his seat and pushing the receiver to his ear once he stopped the infernal ringing. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Sebastian lit up at the voice on the other end, rambling excitedly. _Terry_.

“Ta. Count me in. Right, mate. See ya in a tick,” Sebastian finished his conversation in a matter of seconds, slamming the receiver back in its place and rushing to the bedroom. Sherlock doubted he was expected to follow for a late afternoon shag.

“Terry?” Sherlock said, neglecting to raise his voice.

“Hmm?”

Sherlock waited until Sebastian reappeared in the sitting room, dressed in a tight fitting t-shirt and even tighter jeans. They’d be going to the pub a few blocks away, then. Four of them. Sherlock pushed away the irritation growing within him. He would not be the bloke who refused his boyfriend some pints and time away. Even if it they had just moved in. And even if he looked bloody _gorgeous_ in that outfit.

“You’re off. Gallivanting with the boys at the pub. Just try not to get terribly intoxicated?” Sebastian stopped, caught Sherlock’s mouth in a quick yet heated kiss, gave the side of his thigh a brisk slap, and all but skipped out the door.

“Back soon! Promise, love.”

Sherlock turned his body to lie horizontally on the couch. A night alone, then.

Five hours later, Sherlock remembered how unreliable Seb’s promises always ended up being. It was only half twelve, but that twinge of worry wouldn’t shake, no matter how many thoughts Sherlock tried to fit in its place. Thirty more minutes and he was up, pacing in front of their new windows, wondering when he had become one of the paranoid sort. Fifteen minutes after that, and he heard a stumble in the hall. A shaking hand struggled with the lock. _Seven to nine pints, then._

When Sebastian finally burst through the door, Sherlock remained at the window, pretending to admire the city with an empty gaze.

“Must’ve been a smashing time, then. Almost six hours gone.” Sherlock turned. “Oh, and one of your mates is marrying, is he?”

“Shut it, Sherlock.” Sebastian dropped his keys on the wooden floor, waving a tense hand in Sherlock’s direction. “Lucky guess.”

“I don’t guess, Sebastian.”

“’m not doin’ this now. G’ng to sleep,” Sebastian said, his words muffled as if his lips were the severely inebriated part of him. Sherlock crossed his arms.

“You’re not doing what? I was merely observing.”

“Sherlock! Don’t want to hear it, mate. Leave m’alone.” Sebastian mumbled something a few moments later, something Sherlock wasn’t sure he heard correctly. He wasn’t sure he wanted it repeated, either, but took a chance.

“Something to say?”

Sebastian lifted his head, eyes glaring angrily in his direction. Sherlock had never seen him so irate before. He wanted to blame it on the lager, but he’d witnessed his boyfriend drunk many, many more times than was satisfactory, and this was not its usual manifestation.

“Leave. Me. Alone.” Sebastian made a beeline for the bedroom until Sherlock sidled up next to him, grasping his bare forearm, hard.

“I’m not letting you…” Sherlock was interrupted by Sebastian’s wrist wrenching violently out of his grip, nearly knocking them both over with the force. Seb’s breathing grew more desperate, coming in short huffs, and Sherlock backed away once he regained his balance.

“I _said_ that I had to deal with bein’ called a poofter all fuckin’ _night_ , and I sure as hell don’t want to prove my mates right by bloody takin’ you to bed,” Sebastian said, biting, and had the dark not betrayed his vision, Sherlock would have sworn he was foaming at the mouth. 

“You told them, then.” Sherlock clenched his jaw.  
  
“No choice. One of the blokes saw a fuckin’ hickey on m’neck.” Sebastian rubbed at the red spot on his skin, trying to will it away with his palm. “I slipped up on the pronouns.”  
  
“I suppose a heterosexual would not accidentally call his girlfriend ‘he.’”  
  
“I s’pose not,” Sebastian mumbled. “They took the piss for near an hour before I left. Back home to my,” he hesitated, giving Sherlock a one-over. “…to you.”  
  
“Well, I am equally overjoyed to see you,” Sherlock said with a scoff. He heard his heart pounding at a slightly higher pace. Sebastian glared for a few beats before shaking his head.  
  
“Please, Sherlock. Leave me the bloody _fuck_ alone.” He made his way to the bedroom, finally unfettered, and slammed the door behind him.  
  
Sherlock stood still a moment, unsure what to do with himself.

He felt his heart click into a cold, settled, and relatively familiar place. He had not been there since he last saw his father. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. He feared he would inhabit this place far too often in the coming years.

\--

Sherlock’s eyes stick intently to the ceiling of 221B. After outlining the entirety of the room a few times, he narrows his vision to the many imperfections. Cracks, nearly four years old. Remnants of a chandelier, historically displaced until it was removed in the eighties. All cobwebs absent, cheers to Mrs. Hudson. Though a slight sprinkling of dust remains on the bookshelves: she’ll see to that in the next day or two, surely.

The distraction fades. He presses his fingers together, firmly, carefully, against his lips while he listens.

“See you at work, then? If I do still have a job after this mess, that is,” John says, self-deprecating with a hint of flirtation. He knows he has a job. He’s needling her for a compliment. After the evening they’ve had, John needs an affirmation of his relationship prowess. _Typical_.

Sarah sighs. A thin chuckle follows.

“Course you do.”

Sherlock hears a quiet smack, a small touch of the lips, and the door to the flat closes for good. John’s feet fall methodically against each stair, as if he’s planning every step before it comes. _He’s irritated, then_..

“Sherlock,” John begins, taking a few steps forward once he reaches the top of the landing, “you all right?” Sherlock’s eyes widen.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” He drops his hands from his face, gripping his thighs while waiting for an answer. Leave it to John to be unpredictable. John inches closer with another step.

“Dunno. Thought maybe taking down a Chinese gang would have some effect, but I’ve obviously gone mad.” He smiles, warm and understanding, and Sherlock feels his palms tighten against his trousers. John finds the edge of the sofa, planting himself on the arm and looking down at Sherlock.

“I would imagine your date to be more affected than either of us,” Sherlock says, “she did not seem to welcome being kidnapped on a first date.” John nods, heaving a sigh through his nose.

“Ah, yes. Well. I think I’ve been fairly relegated into the ‘co-worker’ box after tonight.” He smiles again, and Sherlock notes a flutter in his stomach. _Odd._ “S’all right. Don’t mind too much,” John continues with a shrug, vacating himself from the couch and heading toward the kitchen. Just then Sherlock remembers he hasn’t eaten in two and a half days.

Must remedy that.

First, this.

“Oh?” Sherlock is vaguely intrigued, especially considering the fervor with which John was pursuing this Sarah-woman earlier in the night. John stops, turning to face Sherlock once again. “You seemed _quite_ interested earlier when I required your assistance.” Sherlock pushes himself to a sitting position, crossing his arms over his chest. John smirks. _Positive correlation. Smile leads to pseudo-arrhythmia._

“True,” John says, turning on his heel, “I guess I just lost interest.” He disappears into the kitchen, opening cupboards and the refrigerator in search of any scrap of food.

“You didn’t lose interest,” Sherlock yells in John’s general direction, outraged. “When we arrived you were livid that I wouldn’t absent myself so you could be alone with Sheila.”

“Her name is Sarah, Sherlock. _Sarah_ ,” John interjects. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.

“Evidently, I shouldn’t bother remembering her name correctly.” John returns in time to grace Sherlock’s comment with an eye-roll, a plate of eclectic snacks stuck in his hand.

“Let’s not discuss it anymore. I’m going to eat. You’re going to go back to whatever state you were in before I began this mess of a conversation.” John sighs, digging into the food on his plate with frustrated yet famished enthusiasm.

“You were genuinely excited to go on this so-called ‘date,’” he throws up quotations to frame his words and hears the exasperated plop of John’s food falling back down to its original resting place. He continues, unfazed. “But you no longer retain your original excitement due to tonight’s events. And it isn’t your guilt over placing Sarah in danger, rather, that may have revealed your true feelings for her. Instead,” Sherlock pauses when John holds up a hand.

“Sherlock. Enough.” John stands up, moving toward the couch once again. “I’m no longer interested in Sarah, you’re right. I’d rather…” he stops, pressing his lips tightly together. “Forget it. Forget it, Sherlock. I’m going to bed.”

“You’d rather risk your life running through the streets of London than eat take-away with Samantha,” Sherlock finishes. John meets his eyes deliberately, stopping quickly in his tracks. His head drops for a moment, and he rubs at the bridge of his nose before responding.

“I told you I’d gone mad.” Sherlock’s mouth pulls into a smile. John lingers for a minute. “And her name is Sarah.”

A few minutes later, John is upstairs readying himself for bed and Sherlock’s focus has redirected back to the ceiling. 

This time, the flutter doesn’t fade. 

\--

Sherlock gripped tightly onto the wooden frame of the headboard, throwing his head back in an attempt to fling a piece of hair from his face. The sticky sheen of sweat on his forehead made it difficult, but he promptly forgot as Sebastian finally managed to hit _that_ spot just once. He groaned, attempting to elicit an encore, but the vocal clue went unnoticed. Instead, Sebastian returned to a crooked rhythm, neglecting Sherlock’s desires. _No surprises there_.

The two men had long ago given up on moving seamlessly together. After a few tiffs in the bedroom, they decided it was either forge ahead or live an abstinent life. Sebastian would never tolerate the latter. So now whenever Sebastian pushed Sherlock down onto the bed, rolled a condom on and entered him without much question, Sherlock didn’t argue. _Forge ahead, indeed_.

Sebastian would be done soon. He could tell by the vice-like death grip clamped around his arm in the form of the other man’s hand. Sherlock breathed in deeply, focusing his mind elsewhere.

His new opportunity with Scotland Yard leapt to mind. Sherlock found it mildly exhilarating: the prospect of consulting on murder cases, serial killers, truly interesting work, instead of the drivel his brother was constantly giving him. Mycroft must have deliberately chosen only the dull cases to hand off to his younger sibling. That was the only explanation as to why he would bother asking Sherlock to point out details a monkey could have observed. Nevertheless, Mycroft’s connections _had_ become advantageous the minute a certain Detective Inspector inquired after him. Sherlock wasn’t daft enough to think Mycroft was innocent of any involvement in this situation. Years of experience taught him to expect otherwise.

Sebastian did not take to the idea at first. In fact, he still wasn’t fond of it. When Sherlock first mentioned the opportunity to him at dinner one night, he all but flew off the handle.

“You’ve been pushing me for _years_ to bring in money. I thought you’d be pleased,” Sherlock had said, setting his fork down calmly.

“Pleased? That you’re cavorting ‘round town like some sort of policeman? You’re not, Sherlock. Stop stickin’ your nose where it doesn’t belong.” Sebastian leaned forward, raising his eyebrow.

“I’m not sticking my _nose_ anywhere. I was _asked_ to aid in some investigations.” Sebastian scoffed.

“And I guess you think that came about on its own, yeah? I told you not to get involved in your brother’s… meanderings. S’dangerous.”

“If you’re concerned for my safety,” Sherlock started before Sebastian raised his hand in protest.

“It’s not concern,” he said quickly before switching to a whisper, “Don’t make me say it, babe. I don’t want you getting involved with that… shit again. It almost…” Sebastian stopped. Sherlock pressed his back to the booth behind him, crossing his arms deliberately over his chest. “I know you’ve been clean for awhile. I trust you.”

“Oh, _clearly_ ,” Sherlock snapped. Sebastian laid his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. If not for the close quarters, Sherlock would have squirmed away.

“Don’t. You know I’ve a right to be worried. I just don’t want this… hyping you up.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’m not a child, Sebastian.” He glanced swiftly at his boyfriend, and Sebastian caught his chin before he could turn back.

“I know that.” Their eyes met for a moment, and that was all it took. “I know that,” he repeated,  sliding closer until Sherlock could feel their breath mingling. Sebastian closed his lips around Sherlock’s, stroking his fingers over his jaw and up against his ear. Sherlock sighed, sinking reluctantly into the kiss. When they separated, Sebastian smiled, clearly hatching a plan. “I think we ought to take this home, don’t you?”

Sherlock angled forward until their foreheads met. He breathed in Sebastian’s scent through his nose. He nodded.

Sebastian let out a full-throated groan from behind him, and Sherlock’s mind snapped back to the present. He rocked back, pushing harder against Sebastian’s cock until he felt him coming undone. Another groan broke through the darkness, and just when Sherlock expected Sebastian’s full weight to come toppling down onto him, he suddenly felt the other man abruptly, and rather painfully, remove himself from the room.

Sherlock lay in shock for almost a full minute before realizing fully what had happened, and it only took a few more seconds for him to realize he was still stark bloody naked, mildly erect and alone. He was furious.

“Seb…Sebastian?” he called out as rage seethed through him and began to flush across his chest in a deep red discoloration.

“Oi?” Sebastian poked his head back through the door, an expectant grin plastered on his face. Sherlock contemplated turning to sit down, to relieve his embarrassing position just a bit, but decided against it when he conjured up an image of himself, painfully aroused, sitting with his legs crossed on the bed.

“Where the _fuck_ did you go?” His arms shook slightly. Sebastian looked surprised.

“Off to shower. Sorry. Should’ve said.” He flashed another grin before hopping back toward the bathroom without another word.

Sherlock turned to face the wall of their bedroom, trying to subdue his anger. He hadn’t been all that keen on having sex in the first place, but this was downright absurd. And unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Sebastian had been slightly apologetic but completely clueless. Sherlock had finished the job in the bathroom and fallen asleep on the couch that night. Now, he wasn’t sure what to do.

After he calmed down, he pulled on a pair of boxers and climbed under the sheets. Surely he’d deal with this when Sebastian finished his shower. He closed his eyes, his heart still pounding rather rapidly in his chest, thinking on all the choice words he’d say when he finally had his chance. Maybe he’d get up, sleep on the couch again. Maybe he’d suggest they take a break. Maybe he’d even end things right here. Leaving one’s partner unsatisfied more than once seemed a good enough reason for that.

Or maybe he’d just stay. Fall asleep. Wake up the next morning and never think on it again.

Maybe he’d get used to it.


	3. Chapter 3

As the blonde secretary shrieks her way out of her office, Sherlock smiles politely to himself. He pockets the jade pin quickly and glides over to the staircase to wait for John. Meeting with Sebastian couldn’t take longer than a few minutes. Honestly, he was uncomfortable with them having to meet again at all, but John was insistent. “Money’s important,” he said. Sherlock had reluctantly allowed them to part ways, hoping it wouldn’t lead to anything other than a brief exchange and an efficient payment. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he spotted John exiting Sebastian’s office and quietly shutting the door behind him.

“Ready to go?” John asks when he reaches the other man. Sherlock nods, moving to head down the staircase.

“Got the payment, then, I expect.” Sherlock keeps heading toward the exit, avoiding eye contact with John. John hums.

“Yes. He was a bit hesitant, handing it over. Not surprised.” John weaves his hands behind his back, holding them there while they walk through the lobby.

“I suppose he had a bit to say. He always does,” Sherlock says, trying not to seem insistent. Now that the case is over, he is almost completely in the clear. He had feared for days that John would clue into his secret, and once he mentioned a word to Lestrade, all hope would be lost. After all, Lestrade still remembers a time when the elusive Sherlock Holmes wore a wedding band. He only asked after it on one occasion, and when Sherlock told him it was just a family heirloom, in order to protect Sebastian’s dearly-held secrecy, he had let it go with no more than a funny look. No doubt the every-man Detective Inspector has that memory stored away for a rainy day. If only to pay him back for five years of embarrassment.

John nods, as if he’s just remembered a conversation he took part in five minutes ago.

“Ah, yes. He told me to tell you to keep in touch. In fact, I think his wording was ‘tell him to please phone me, as I need to speak with him.’ Something urgent, you reckon?” 

“Oh, surely,” Sherlock grumbles, breathing frustration into every word, “I’m so pleased he felt the need to send you the message instead of,” He stops himself short, short of a full-on rant, that is, and looks to John. “I’ll send him an e-mail.” John licks his lips as they hit the cold winter air of London.

Later that evening, John sits contently in his chair, reading the newspaper, while Sherlock details some of the more precise information about the case on his blog.

Once finished, he clicks to the internet browser and sees a new message has appeared. He opens it impatiently.

_Sherlock,_

_I wanted to thank you for solving the ‘case’ over here so quickly. I knew contacting you would be a good idea._

_Anyway, now that everything’s sorted there, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to get some coffee? Or a meal? I’d really like to speak with you about a few things. Surely there are some things we’ve left unsaid._

_I’d really like you to respond. Please._

_See you soon,_

_Seb_

 

Sherlock stares for a moment, hits the reply button, and leaves his fingers hovering over the keys on John’s laptop.

He can imagine just a few things Sebastian has to say to him. “Please don’t take my need for your assistance as some sort of pathetic chance to win you back” or “You really shouldn’t try to rope that Watson fellow into any of your maddening lifestyle.” The latter would be extremely irritating, especially considering he had heard some version of it from his brother before. The former would essentially lead to an awkward evening of cold tea and even colder words spoken in mock understanding with a double helping of pity. Or maybe this will finally be the “I need a divorce” speech he’s been dreading for months. In the beginning, Sherlock held on hope that maybe there would be some form of reconciliation in the near future. Anything but severing ties and legally ending their civil partnership. But now… now things are different.

Maybe he should let Sebastian tell him his piece. No matter how awkward it ends up being, at least he can get it out of the way. All said and done. No more wedding ring sitting in his drawer, no more secrets to hide from John, no more estranged significant other across the city. It may simplify his life a bit. Then again, Sherlock never liked simplicity. 

“Interested in dinner?” John asks, dragging Sherlock from inside of his head. “You haven’t been eating very much the past few days with the case and all. Want to do Angelo’s tonight?” John’s paper now folded in half so he can peer over the top of it. Sherlock looks up from the laptop, meeting John’s eyes.

John smiles.

Sherlock shuts the computer.

“Angelo’s. Yes,” he says, standing up to grab his coat.

Yes, things are definitely different. 

\--

Sherlock peered in the window to the restaurant, spotting Sebastian almost immediately amongst the crowd of patrons. He sighed and shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat.

_What could he possibly want?_

Sebastian had phoned Sherlock from work earlier that day, requesting his presence at a very posh eating establishment downtown. Sherlock, after some persuading, had agreed, but refused to eat. He was in the middle of a rather large triple-murder case that Lestrade was doing a right job of muddling up. How they got along before him, Sherlock would never know. He assumed they functioned mainly on sheer dumb luck and coincidence.

Gliding through the front doors, Sherlock caught Sebastian’s eye and evaded the maitre’d seamlessly. He seated himself across from the other man and flashed a quick and painless smile in response to Sebastian’s embarrassingly wide grin. Sebastian cleared his throat.

“Thanks for coming.” Sebastian opened his napkin, flattening it over his lap. “Have a good day, then?”

Sherlock blinked.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why do you want to know how my day was?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but Sebastian continued to play coy.

“Can’t I be interested in my boyfriend’s day?” Sherlock flinched at the word ‘boyfriend.’ Sebastian didn’t often use such labels in public, and something struck him as insincere in the other man’s tone.

“Seeing as you have never asked me how my day was, the correct answer is yes you can be interested, but it is rather inconsistent of you to be at this moment. If my day was good, it would be of no consequence to you, just as your day is of no consequence to me. You have never attempted to engage in these social niceties with me before. There’s something going on here,” Sherlock ignored Sebastian’s pointed look and continued on. Jittery hands. Flushed skin. Definitely anxious. “You’ve slept with someone else. I thought as much when you…”

Sebastian began laughing. Sherlock blinked some more.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.” Sebastian leaned in, fiddling idly with the edge of his napkin beneath the table. “You’re being ridiculous. I’ve asked you here to have dinner with me and you… attack me. It’s absurd.”

Sherlock felt as though he has lost his ability to read his partner. Although he hadn’t denied his indiscretions, his manner was slightly more elated than it should have been. Why on earth would Sebastian be anxious and happy at the same time?

“I’m not sure what you want from me, Seb,” Sherlock said, almost defeated. Sebastian smiled.

“Can’t I invite you to dinner with no ulterior motives?” He shook his head with a laugh, his shoulders hunching toward the table as he shifted in his seat. “Posh place, eh?” He cleared his throat, and Sherlock observed him closely, still suspicious.

Both men basked in the silence between them for quite a few minutes. Sebastian twitched every once in awhile, and Sherlock noted those twitches milliseconds later. They were a perfect machine of anxiety mixed with paranoia. Eventually, Sebastian opened his mouth, and Sherlock waited.

“Sherlock, we’ve been together for a long time now. Together since Uni, which is more than most couples can say,” he started, and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. _Couple_? Who was this man?

“That’s not accurate. If you were speaking about an older age group, perhaps, but we’ve barely reached thirty, so it is decidedly unimpressive for us to have…” he hesitated, “…been _together_ since University.” Sebastian rolled his eyes. He brought his hands up to the table, as if using them to speak would more clearly get his point across.

“Okay, toss it, then. All I mean to say, Sherlock, is that,” Sebastian broke off suddenly, waving his hand in the air frantically, looking as if he meant to magically sweep the words into his mouth.

“Sebastian, I…” Sherlock began, but Sebastian stopped him.

“ _No!_ ” They both jumped at that. Sherlock was slightly concerned that Sebastian would throw a fit in front of the whole restaurant.

Then it hit him: this was a break-up conversation. No wonder Sebastian was so nervous. He was having a hard time finding the right words to tell Sherlock that it was over. Sherlock couldn’t say he was too surprised. But was he relieved or upset? That he definitely couldn’t say.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock said, calmly. Perhaps if he could find the right words _first_ , he could save Sebastian further humiliation. “I believe I know where you plan on going with this conversation. I know I am not an easy person to live with, or _be_ with, in any sense of the word. I know we’ve been having problems the past two years, especially since I took the position with Lestrade. Therefore, I completely understand why you want to,” he paused when he saw the look on Sebastian’s face.

“Sherlock, Jesus, no,” Sebastian whispered, removing himself from his chair and pressing just one knee to the floor beside their table. Sherlock completely and utterly froze. _What?_ “I’m trying to ask you to marry me, you daft git.” He pulled a small black box from his jacket pocket, popping it open to reveal a simple gold band. Sherlock all but gaped.

“Marry you? How…” Sherlock was not aware of the legality of such a proposal. Sebastian openly laughed.

“It’s a civil partnership, technically, but I don’t see the difference. They started doing them at the end of last year, and I didn’t think anything of it until one of the blokes at work put up a picture of a ceremony he had with his, uh, husband.” Sherlock was amazed at Sebastian’s ability to inject a little piece of homophobia into his marriage proposal to another man. “Then I thought, why not? We’re practically married anyway.”

Sebastian knelt, his face radiating with optimistic pride, waiting for Sherlock’s answer to a question he had yet to actually ask. Sherlock gripped the arms of his chair, rubbing the tips of his fingers together. None of what he had said previous to Sebastian’s ridiculous outburst was untrue. The past two years had been difficult to say the least, and Sherlock had thought of leaving on several occasions. But Sebastian gave him some sense of security, and love, he supposed. There was someone in his bed, someone to sit at the table and eat while he rambled, someone to listen, even if he wasn’t truly listening. He couldn’t stand the thought of being alone when this was all he knew.

Despite the rocky times, and the times when Sherlock felt freakish in his partner’s presence, Sebastian was there. Wasn’t that all he really needed? He could shoulder through the latent homophobia, the exasperated looks and the fights. It was better than complete silence.

Perhaps most importantly, there would never be anyone else. No one would love him like Sebastian did: it seemed almost impossible for Sebastian to manage. If this man loved him, who was he to get up and leave? He wasn’t losing anything this way. It was his only chance.

“You’ve neglected the actual question, but I suppose my answer would have to be yes.” Sherlock attempted a smile. Sebastian looked relieved, yet satisfied. Placing the black box on the table, the other man gripped the edge to help him return to his chair.

“There, see? Didn’t have to be so hard,” Sebastian said, sighing. He spread his napkin back over his lap and picked up his menu. “Where’s the bloody waitress? I’m starved.”

Sherlock followed suit, despite the fact that he would not be eating. All the while, his eyes never left the little black box before him. And although he knew it was all in his mind, Sherlock swore that ring stared right back at him.    

\--

“I can see you staring at me, Sherlock.”

John turns his head with a smile, placing another kernel of popcorn in his mouth and crunching down deliberately. Sherlock doesn’t falter.

“I am aware that you can see me,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on John’s. “I don’t doubt your peripheral vision.”

John grunts. “Yes, well, cheers,” he says, his cheeks blushing. Sherlock has noticed this blush before, as it has come in more frequent intervals in the past few weeks. Each occasion has been duly noted, as has the way the reddening of John’s cheeks have made Sherlock’s heart thump just a little harder against his ribcage. “May I ask why you are staring, then? Or am I expected to simply watch _Doctor Who_ under these conditions?”

“An experiment,” Sherlock answers. John nods. Stretching his right arm around the back of the couch, his fingers dangle dangerously close to Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s skin tingles at the near-promise of contact, and he has to stop himself from leaning back, just a few more centimeters, into the touch. Luckily, John’s curiosity still has the best of him.

“An experiment. About…” John continues, digging into the bowl on his lap. He pops a few more kernels into his mouth and glances back to the television, just as the female companion reappears.

“About her.” Sherlock says, nudging his head in the direction of the red-headed actress.

“What, Amy Pond?” John smiles, incredulous. “Why not stare at her, then?”

“I’m observing you, not Amy Pond, don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock waves a hand toward the telly, as if negating its importance. John pivots in his seat, retracting his hand and turning to face Sherlock. He places the half-empty bowl of popcorn on the ground.

“You’re observing me. But this has to do with her somehow.”

“I’m merely noting your reactions to her as a female. Some would say she’s attractive, with full lips like that, although your tastes do tend toward brunettes.” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, realizing now might not be the optimal time for this experiment. “Maybe I should check back with you during another program,” he says begrudgingly, using his foot to leverage him off the couch. Before he can get too far, John grasps his ankle firmly in hand, pulling him back down so the two are facing completely once more.

“Or you could forget _that_ and watch _this_ with me. Or watch _me_ watching it, whichever you like.” With one of his legs politely tucked beneath him, and the other hanging off of the couch, John looks more relaxed than he has in weeks. Sherlock has seen the tension dissipate from his hand, from his leg, and from his behavior in general. He feels comfortable today, sitting on the couch and watching television. And when Sherlock truly considers it, he, too, feels comfortable in this moment.

He leans back against the cushion and sighs. “Very well.”

Three hours and two and a half episodes of _Doctor Who_ later, and Sherlock and John have nestled themselves quite comfortably under one rather large blanket. John’s hand rests on Sherlock’s thigh over the fabric, and although Sherlock isn’t certain whether John is aware of it, his constant shifts in placement have done nothing to deter the hand from remaining there. Sherlock wonders if friends who spend hours together watching television usually find themselves in this position. In truth, he hopes this isn’t typical friendship behavior, because that would mean the ache currently pooling in belly, the twinge in his gut to just reach out and run his fingers over the nape of John’s neck, the urge to slowly lean down and plop his head on John’s shoulder, would be unwarranted. Even though his only frame of reference is the complex relationship he once experienced with Sebastian, Sherlock knows John is different. And that only tempts him more.

“I do miss Tennant, though,” John says, finishing a long stream-of-consciousness regarding the differences between the modern reincarnations of ‘The Doctor.’ Sherlock finds John’s mild interest in the show generally irrelevant but mildly endearing and he listened to nearly all of his ramblings on the subject. He nods, feigning comprehension. John smiles.

“I know you heard almost zero of what I just said, but thank you for the friendly nod in any case,” John says, laughing. He pats his hand on Sherlock’s thigh, rubbing it up and down, and Sherlock tries not to let the motion get to him, despite the fact that all of his nerve endings seem to have relocated there over the course of the evening. He hatches a plan.

“We haven’t gone out for Thai in nearly three weeks, which I find truly appalling,” Sherlock says, slipping out from under the blanket and away from John’s touch. He can still feel the warmth on the inside of his thigh, and tries to push it out of his mind. “Let’s say we remedy that.” Sherlock retrieves his coat and swings it around his form, fitting his arms in the sleeves. He sees John move slowly away from the couch, nodding in approval.

“Yes. Yes, alright.”

They ready themselves in mere minutes and head down the street to their favorite Thai restaurant, the aroma of spices hitting them as soon as they open the door. The hostess leads them to their regular booth, and Sherlock can’t help but notice how John sidles up a bit closer than usual next to him. Unfortunately, the topic of conversation with which he elects to begin their meal almost brings an end to Sherlock’s appetite altogether.

“Did you ever get in touch with that Sebastian bloke?” John asks, unfolding his napkin over his lap and placing his menu at the edge of the table. Menus have become largely unnecessary for them in the passing weeks, as the two hardly deviate from their normal orders. “He seemed eager to speak with you.”

Sherlock groans. “No, and I don’t wish to, if you must know. I fulfilled his request, rather well, and I fail to see what he could possibly want to discuss with me further.”

In fact, Sebastian had been rather insistent since Sherlock had solved his case two weeks prior. He had all but flooded Sherlock’s inbox with e-mails, requesting to meet for tea, for coffee, for lunch, for dinner. Two days ago he had almost crossed the threshold into begging, but instead played it off as some sort of dire situation in need of a solution. Sherlock was unconvinced, although it did nag at him when he let his mind wander. Distracting himself with John all day had given him some freedom from not only the incessant e-mails, but also from the fear of his imminent divorce.

John’s elbow nudges at him gently, and Sherlock looks up to see the hostess staring blankly at him. He places his order rather apathetically and watches her leave before feeling the familiar pressure of John’s hand on his thigh. The loud pounding in his ears that accompanies it is not far from familiar, either. This time there’s no blanket, no ambiguity, just John’s hand, Sherlock’s thigh, and their eyes meeting in the middle. John shifts in his seat, a smile touching his lips only slightly.

“Sherlock, I’ve been meaning to…” he starts, when a vibration in Sherlock’s pocket stops him in his tracks. Sherlock wants to ignore it, for perhaps the first time in his life, because this promises to be much more interesting, but John shakes his head. “You know you want to look.”

Sherlock pulls his mobile out of his pocket in one fluid motion, realizing quickly that someone is phoning him, not texting. He reluctantly pushes the green button near the screen and holds it up to his ear.

“Sherlock?”

For half of a moment, Sherlock forgets to breathe, and turns to face the wall. “Sebastian?”

“Listen,” Sebastian says, breathlessly, and Sherlock can hear the fear in his voice, “I really need to speak with you. Please. You haven’t answered any of my e-mails and I, I need to speak with you.”

Sherlock turns to John. John looks away when Sherlock catches his eye, pretending as though he wasn’t listening to their conversation, or lack of one. Every single rational part of Sherlock’s brain tells him to stay, to listen to what John has to say, to watch his face while he talks, to memorize the feel of his touch, no matter how small it is. Instead, he turns back around.

“Meet me at your flat in twenty minutes. I assume you haven’t moved.”

He hears a loud sigh. “No, no. Thank you. See you, then, Sherlock.”

The line goes dead a few seconds later, and Sherlock faces John once more.

“Leaving?” he asks, his lips pressed firmly together in a frown. Sherlock nods.

“Yes, I, uh. Yes.”

“Need some company?” John asks, the hope in his voice shining through. Their eyes meet, the connection tenuous at best, and Sherlock suddenly feels like running home to melt that damned wedding ring of his. He shakes his head as he stands up.

“I just need to take care of something. Alone.” He wraps his coat and scarf around his body, looking John up and down. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Sherlock!” he hears John call just as he is pushing the door open.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m not fond of jewelry,” Sherlock said, a light gust of wind skimming over his face. Sebastian nudged him softly in the chest, stopping abruptly at the kerb to wait for the light to turn. 

“Isn’t that what people do? Wear rings?” Sebastian shrugged, as if it were more of an irrelevant conversation topic than an actual assertion.

“I have no regard for what people _do_.” They crossed the street, accompanied by a mass of strangers. “Look at them. Dull.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Yes, well. Mother would like it.”

“Your mother sees us twice a year. I hardly think her wishes are cause for sudden decision-making.” Sherlock shoved his hands in his coat pockets, rubbing carefully at the inside of his ring finger. He hated change, and wearing a ring would take some getting used to.

“Sherlock, we’ve been engaged for barely an hour and you’re already taking the piss,” Sebastian said, pulling his collar up against the wind. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“My concerns are valid.”

“Are they?” Sebastian stopped walking. Sherlock was tempted to keep going without him, seeing as their flat was less than a block away and it was _freezing_ , but he humored his… fiancé. “I don’t see the difficulty in it, Sherlock. It’s a little band of gold that you wear around one of your fingers.”

“It might interfere with my work.”

“Your _work_? Please,” Sebastian said with a scoff. “C’mon, babe. Don’t be unreasonable.”

Sebastian stepped forward, slipping his hands out of his pockets and pulling at the lapels of Sherlock’s coat. Their bodies pressed together momentarily, chest to chest. Before he had a second to think, Sherlock moved away, glancing around at the passer-bys. Usually Sebastian was not this affectionate in public, but with proposing and openly touching on the street, today was definitely setting some records.

“Let’s go home,” Sherlock said, quickly making his way toward their destination. A few seconds later, Sebastian’s step fell in line with his.

As soon as they reached their flat and began to remove their coats, Sebastian started in on him again. It was then that Sherlock knew this was a losing battle.

“Look, Sherlock,” he said with a sigh, hanging his coat on the hook next to the door, “I know change is difficult for you. But this is what being in a relationship is about. Compromise.” Sebastian pressed a hand to his hip, his fingers shaking visibly. Sherlock kept his distance. He knew of the other man’s tendency to seduce when they were having an argument. Sherlock hated how effective it had proven to be. Even if their sex had become less than mediocre, Sherlock couldn’t resist the time spent together, touching, kissing, and pretending like everything was as it should be.

“There has not been a lack of compromise on my part, Sebastian,” Sherlock grumbled, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. Sebastian scoffed, and suddenly, Sherlock felt himself becoming more and more irrational. “If I am so irritating, so childish, so _unreasonable_ in your eyes, then why do you want to marry me?”

For a moment, Sebastian looked taken aback. He laughed, a short, sad explosion of noise emerging from his downturned mouth before he retreated back into silence. His head dropped, his eyes roaming around the room, the floor, and finally, resting on Sherlock’s form. Sherlock waited, the anger flaring through his limbs. It seemed to be hours before he spoke.

“That was well-deserved, I s’pose,” he started, rocking back and forth on his feet. “But, Sherlock, you seem to believe I secretly loathe you, and I’m not sure where it comes from.” He took a deep breath, the air hitching in his throat. “I know things haven’t been the easiest. I’ve not taken to our… to us very smoothly, and that’s my fault. Clearly. Maybe I have some sort of fear of intimacy, or I’m bloody fucked up to my core, but I do know… I do know that I _love_ you.” He paused again, swiping a tear from his cheek. Cold spread across Sherlock’s chest, through his veins one by one, branching out very slowly until his whole body felt frozen.

“I do know that. I’ve known it all along, and it’s all that I _do_ know.” Sebastian stepped a few paces closer to Sherlock, his hands hanging idly at his sides. “All we have is each other. All we have is quiet mornings drinking coffee and backward schedules that often refuse to let us spend any time together and your mad lack of sleep and my all-consuming job. But it’s us. It’s you and me, and what we have been since day one. I may be a git sometimes, and you may be a _giant_ git sometimes, but it’s us. This is it. This could be a life, couldn’t it? I mean, isn’t it, already?”

Sherlock considered it for a moment. He considered the fighting, the loneliness, the utter absence of Sebastian at every Holmes family function so far. But he also considered the warm leg against his at the dinner table, the sleeping body next to him at night while he sat up in bed on his laptop, the sound of Sebastian coming home at the end of the day. It all somehow… added up.

He nodded.

Sebastian smiled, tears lining his bottom eyelids. “Then why not be my husband, why not wear my ring, and make it official?”

Sherlock closed the distance between them with a few more steps. Cupping Sebastian’s face in his hand, he pressed their lips together softly in a chaste kiss. Sebastian rested their foreheads against one another, his hands framing Sherlock’s waist. They swayed together gently, the motion almost soothing to Sherlock’s overwrought senses. He closed his eyes, willing this memory to be a permanent habitant of his mind. He held Sebastian tightly, sweeping his hands up the other man’s back.

He knew that as soon as they separated, as soon as Sebastian went back to work, went to sleep, fell back into routine, that this feeling would float away.

Marriage was difficult, people said. Sherlock felt well-versed in difficult.   

\--

Sebastian is waiting for him outside their old building, clinging desperately to a cigarette. His fingers shake around it as he lowers it from his mouth, the puff of smoke mingling with his breath in the winter air. Sherlock glances around for a moment, irrationally afraid that John has followed him. It wouldn’t be the first time. So far, it looks as though the coast is clear. He approaches Sebastian, his hands shoved firmly in his pockets.

When Sebastian sees him, what washes over his face is almost difficult to read, but Sherlock had spent years upon years decoding this man’s facial expressions and their relevance to his life. He’s relieved, yet anxious. Sherlock isn’t sure Sebastian actually expected him to show up, but here he is.

“I was worried you wouldn’t show,” Sebastian says, snuffing the cigarette out against the concrete wall next to him. Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, feeling the collar of his coat rub his numbing cheeks.

“You insist on bothering me with a maddening number of e-mails each day, so I assumed I should respond to your call before the situation escalated.”

Sebastian attempts a smile, the bags under his eyes and dim blue tint in his lips betraying the authenticity. 

“Sorry ‘bout that. I just, eh,” he stops, pressing his hand to his mouth and taking a deep breath, “I have some things to say.” He tries to hold Sherlock’s gaze, but Sherlock tears away, keeping an eye focused on the dark brown spot to his left. _Blood, has to be blood_. When Sebastian lets them linger in silence for another full minute, he gets fed up.

“Sebastian, will you please spit it out? You would think after _weeks_ of –”

“Are you hungry? Do you want to get a meal?” Sebastian offers. Sherlock thinks of John, who is most likely getting a taxi home from the restaurant, bound to an afternoon of eating take-away alone. Sherlock feels his stomach clench.  

“No, actually, you interrupted my meal with John, and I’ve no interest in attempting to eat again tonight.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry to take away time with your new boyfriend.” Sebastian pulls another cigarette from his pocket and lights it in Sherlock’s face.

“Please. Let’s not lower ourselves to jealous diatribe. I came here for a reason, and I can see you’re delaying the inevitable.”

Sebastian taps his foot a few times. “C’mere,” he says, snatching Sherlock’s hand. He leads them down the street several paces before stopping in a shadowed corner, secluded from the activity of nightly London.

“Sebastian, please.” Sherlock wrenches his arm sideways, but Sebastian tightens his grip on his hand.

“Sherlock,” he says, his nervous exhalations puffing air into Sherlock’s face. “I wanted to say – to tell you – how sorry I am. God, Sherlock, I acted a fucking fool, but I was angry and confused. You show up, you show up with this new – this guy, and I didn’t know how to react. How could you move on so easily? You know why, you know it wasn’t easy for me to end this.” Sherlock feels Sebastian’s body slump gently against his. The way their legs slot together is easy, familiar. Sherlock hears his heart thud in his ears, feels Sebastian’s arm weave around his waist. He feels their chests inching closer and closer, Sebastian’s breath warm on his neck.

In a moment of clarity, a moment for which he had previously trained himself many years ago, Sherlock puts a few inches between them. His back is pressed, flush, against a brick wall. He groans.

“Apology not accepted. I should be off -”

Sebastian kisses him then, dry and desperate lips on his. He tenses.

“Sherlock, please,” Sebastian moans, practically into his mouth. Discomfort thrums through Sherlock’s veins.

“Seb, this is not what you want.” He forces himself out of Sebastian’s hold, wiping at his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. “You’re only reacting as such due to jealousy, lack of time between our separation and the incident at your bank, and some absurd notion you’ve gotten into your head that we ever really succeeded as a couple.” He sighed. “There’s no need to continue to make a fool of yourself.”

“I’m not making a fool – ”

“You most certainly are.” Sherlock can see a vague reflection of moonlight in Sebastian’s anger-riddled eyes. Sebastian holds his gaze, considering. Sherlock loathes the emotional hold this man has on him. Despite everything they had been through and the new disarray of feelings he now harbors for the ex-army doctor residing in his flat, one look and everything comes flooding back. Sebastian leans forward, fingering the buttons on Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock remains, frozen, his mind racing. He expected this, of course he did.

_He should have expected this._

“You know why I left, Sherlock,” Sebastian breathes, ghosting Sherlock’s ear with his lips. “Don’t make me out to be the villain.”

“Seb, I cannot… possibly–”

“We can have another chance. We can start again. It’s only been six months.”

Sebastian’s hand runs confidently down Sherlock’s side, and Sherlock lets it. He lets the touch seep through his veins, make him come alive. All his thoughts drown out for the moment, all his sensors, all his concentration, all of his focus centers on where Sebastian’s fingers swipe gently across his crotch. Biting his lip, he looks up and nods.

Sebastian takes the cue, undoing Sherlock’s trousers in record time and shoving his hand firmly inside. Sherlock allows a gasp to escape his lips, the first sense of contact overwhelming him. It has been nearly a year since they touched like this. Only two years into his marriage and their sex life absented itself, full stop.

His hand tugs Sherlock’s cock in full force, the pressure a little tighter than necessary, but the adrenaline coursing through both of them allow the imperfection. Sherlock grips Sebastian’s left lapel, his knuckles white, his chest heaving with the urgency of it all. Sebastian slows a bit once Sherlock begins to tense, and Sherlock groans.

“ _Seb_ , please–” Just as the words fall from his lips, Sebastian steals them in a heated kiss. Sherlock bites down, in an attempt to both reciprocate and stifle the moan slowly bubbling up from throat. Sebastian hisses in pain, but continues teasing the head of Sherlock’s cock, smearing wetness all over the front panel of his pants. Luckily, Sherlock hardly cares. Sebastian’s hand slides up and down the shaft, once, twice, _three_ times before Sherlock is seeing stars. Next thing he knows, Sebastian has his mouth again, their lips winding together just as they had, just as they used to, just as they do _not_ anymore. He steps away with a moan.

Just as the full gravity of what he’s just done hits him, his mobile vibrates in his pocket.

“ _John_ ,” he says, a whisper that Sebastian misses in his aroused stupor. He clicks ‘open’ and clenches his jaw.

_Any assistance needed? You left in a hurry._

His fingers ghost the screen, the words zipping incessantly through his mind.

“Sherlock?” he hears from behind. Sherlock adjusts himself, makes himself presentable to the modern world before turning to face Sebastian.

“I’m off. Please cease your contact with me until further notice.” He clears his throat, re-buttons his coat, and looks his ex-husband in the eye. Sebastian rights his buttons as well, breaking their eye contact with a conceited snort.

“S’him, isn’t it? Your _John_.” Sherlock stills. “I see how you looked at him. I see you when you’re around him. You don’t think I know you, Sherlock? We were together for more than a decade.”

“Your knowledge of my habits and behaviors is irrelevant when the subject matter is none of your _business_ ,” Sherlock counters with a bite.

“You know how you get. You’re going to drag him into all this …mess just like you did me. How do you think he’ll handle it when he sees you like I saw you, hmm? Covered in blood, absolutely no idea why I would be upset.” Sebastian retrieves a cigarette from his pocket, the last in his possession if the stains on his nails are any indication. “What makes you think he can take it?”

Sherlock tugs the fabric of his coat tighter around his shoulders. It would be so easy, to whirl around, like he normally would. To let flow all the things he didn’t say, all the things that had been steeping in his mind the past six months. To tell Sebastian that he’s right about everything. That no one else will ever tolerate him again like he did for so many years. Even John will get tired of it and move on.

But then, a thought occurs. _His_ John. No, maybe _his_ John was already different.

He steps out toward the street, toward the traffic, and toward the taxi that will take him home to John.

\--

 _Absolutely hideous_ , Sherlock thought, smoothing down his trousers at the front. Just then, Sebastian came rocketing through the door, a wide smile stuck to his face.

“You look bloody brilliant,” he remarked, grabbing a quick kiss before eyeing Sherlock in the mirror. “As usual.” Sherlock waved his hand through the air, frustrated.

“I can’t get this wrinkle out. It’s maddening.” Sebastian shrugged.

“That? Miniscule. No one’ll notice.”

“No one else matters. _I_ refuse to leave this room before this wrinkle has corrected itself.”

Sebastian smiled again, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder in his hand.

“Don’t fuss so much. It’s obsessive.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Surely I mustn’t remind you of my obsessive personality on our wedding day. One would think all of my quirks are well out in the open by now.”

“Surely not.” Sebastian grinned, rocking back and forth on his heels. Sherlock sighed.

“Everyone’s here, then. You wouldn’t have joined me back here otherwise.” His eyes scanned Sebastian’s form for signs of mishap. The small floral delivery they had ordered arrived quite promptly, Seb had carried it in himself, as was evident from the odor he had brought with him. And other than the pianist and the Wilkes family friend officiating, who had both arrived before Sherlock had left to dress in the toilet in the park, the only guests were Sebastian’s mother and a couple of his more accepting friends. Sebastian was in top mood, so no problems there. “Well?” he asked, palm pressed to the irritating wrinkle for good measure.

“Well what?”

“Why did you deem it necessary to honor me with your presence two minutes before our ceremony begins?”

Sebastian considered him for moment. “Surely I don’t need a reason to see my fiancé one last time before I make an honest man out of him.”

Sherlock smiled. “Surely not.”

The ceremony went off without a hitch, and as he and Sebastian crowded into a taxi an hour later, Sherlock was finally able to catch his breath. Mindless chit chat with Sebastian’s friends and mother while simultaneously internally panicking about the level of public affection his _husband_ was showing him had thrown Sherlock off his game. He was about ready to be done with this whole ‘small, intimate gathering’ business and go back to normal life. Sebastian, however, seemed to revel in his wedding day. He did, as always, love the attention these events attracted. Even if that attention mostly concerned his dedication to another man. Apparently, he genuinely was coming around. _How promising_ , Sherlock thought as Sebastian slithered up against him in the cab.

“Ready for the wedding night?” Sebastian whispered, his voice low and electric. Sherlock couldn’t help the pull at the edge of his mouth.

“It’s barely three.”

“It’s our day. No need to wait ‘til decent hours.” Sebastian’s smile was more devious than usual, and Sherlock wondered if they would be able to make it all the way home. Just then, his phone went off. Sebastian groaned, fearing the worst.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock answered, cutting to the chase. The voice on the other end was strained.

“A big crack in the Russian homicide. He struck again, but he changed it up a bit this time.” Sherlock glanced to Sebastian.

“How long?”

“Found nearly an hour ago. Thought I’d ring you quickly.”

The cab pulled to the front of their building, and Sebastian cracked the door open in haste, urging Sherlock to hang up and follow him. Sherlock shook his head.

“I’ll be there. Text me the details.” He hung up, looking to Sebastian in earnest.

 “Don’t start, Sherlock. Not today. There’s no excuse.” Sebastian breathed harshly through his nose, the increasing volume a sliding scale in anger. “Today is important.”

“My work is important. This is an important case.” Sherlock reached forward for his husband, but was promptly turned away.

“Hurry home, then. One hour, tops.”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

Sebastian held his gaze. “I know.” He slammed the door shut, tossing a paper note to the cabbie for his share of the ride. Sherlock opened Lestrade’s text and informed the cabbie of his next stop. He looked down at his hand, spread across the leather seat of the cab. His new ring glistened in the light.

Sherlock made it home in one hour, twenty six minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus, if anyone is still reading, I'll have the last chapter out by the end of the weekend. 
> 
> If you are reading, thank you so much and hope you enjoy :)

The cab Sherlock Holmes currently inhabits darts through each London street with finesse, making its way to Baker Street in a calculated hurry. The brain Sherlock Holmes currently inhabits is not quite as quick, calculating, or confident. Instead, it is swimming with thoughts of John, Sebastian, whether his trousers are stained, and how well lit 221B really is. He is on his way home to John, to _his_ John, or rather, to see if John is interested in becoming something like _his_ John. He is on his way home to _his_ John after touching, kissing, _being_ with his ex-husband, who by all reasonable standards, should be considered _his_ , but is decidedly and definitively _not his_.

The feel, the smell, and the sounds of the past half an hour rain over him as the cabbie pulls up to the kerb outside Baker Street. His mind thrums with the touch of Sebastian, yet he longs to feel the same of John. Sebastian was right, they hadn’t been apart very long, especially considering how much time they had spent together. Could he really just throw a marriage away like this? All of those long years working so hard to ignore Sebastian’s neglectful behavior and harsh words about his career, all of those sleepless nights spent on the sofa because Sebastian had come home drunk and mouthy once again, and so very few touches, kisses, whispered declarations like there were tonight…

Perhaps Sebastian had changed. Perhaps Sherlock should give him another chance, run to him, slip his ring easily back on his finger and move into their flat just like old times. But the years, the abuse, the fact that John could very well be sitting upstairs ready to love him, touch him, and kiss him like Sebastian never could… It makes everything seem so very simple. Sherlock is not very experienced in ways of the heart, but he feels, perhaps for the first time, that his heart really might know what is best for him.

He opens the door to the cab after paying the cabbie, making a beeline to the door of 221. He takes the stairs two at a time, and when he opens the door to the sitting room, he is met with an expectant, and by the looks of it, a rather irritated John Watson.

“ _John_ ,” he breathes in surprise and an overwhelming desire to kiss the memories of tonight away. Before he can even begin, John starts for him.

“Sherlock, I need to speak with you, and I’m in a right state and if I don’t do it now I don’t think I ever will so please,” John motions to his chair, but Sherlock declines, his mind suddenly flitting once again to his trousers.

“One moment, John,” he says, shaking his head and pleading with his eyes, “I need a moment, a shower, to change my clothes, the places I’ve been,” he steps toward the washroom, spitting pointless words as John gapes at him, a strong crease in his brow.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John says a second too late as Sherlock shuts the bathroom door behind him. Sherlock panics, stripping his soiled clothes off in one quick motion and hopping into the shower. He stands in the spray for barely two minutes before he shuts off the water. He really hadn’t meant to avoid John’s pressing conversation, and he’s positive he looked ridiculous in his rushed fervor, but he simply couldn’t look John in the eye without cleaning the dalliance in the alleyway off of himself.

Sherlock dries himself with a towel he then wraps around his waist, having forgotten to, or rather having decided against, retrieving a set of clean clothing. Unsurprisingly, when he steps out into the hall once more, John is still there waiting for him, hands clenched anxiously at his sides, lips pressed deliberately into a straight line. Sherlock shifts on his feet. 

“Please. Speak,” he says, noting how John’s eyes quickly scan his half-naked form. It takes all his strength not to bite his lip, step forward, steal a glance at John’s lips. Instead he waits.

“Right. Okay.” John takes a deep breath, evidently deciding to abandon his anger from the past five minutes and focus on the task at hand. “I think we both know… what’s been going on here, at least I hope to God you do too, otherwise I really am mad.” He stops with a laugh, but Sherlock remains quiet. “Anyway, I wanted to say that I think… I’m falling for you, and if you feel the same way I wanted to, I wanted to make sure before I did something stupid, like at the restaurant earlier, I didn’t, I didn’t mean to make you so uncomfortable, and I’m not sure what else to say, Sherlock. I… I’m not good at this,” he stops, pressing a hand to each of his hips.

Sherlock breathes slowly, his eyes focused on John’s. The silence settles over both of them after a few moments, and Sherlock considers, thinks, ponders. He wants this. He has wanted John for months now, no matter how absurd that sounds, no matter how married he happens to be. He wants all of this with John, all that he is offering, all that he is rambling about needlessly. Sherlock opens his mouth, ready to jump into this thing headfirst.

Nothing comes out.

“Sherlock, please, I’m not… I don’t… you can’t just stay…”

“I’m married,” Sherlock says, the words bleeding helplessly from his mouth.

John stops, practically frozen in mid-air, his left arm reached out toward Sherlock and his head tilted to the side. Sherlock grasps at his towel, re-situating it on his hips, formulating a follow up to that ridiculous confession. He takes an unconscious step toward John, who opens his mouth once again to speak.

“…married. You’re... you’re married,” John says, matter-of-factly. Sherlock nods. “Sherlock, you don’t, if you’re not interested you don’t have to lie in such a ridiculous…”

“John, don’t be absurd, of course I’m interested,” Sherlock answers, quickly.

“You _are_ interested?” John shifts forward, leaning toward Sherlock. Sherlock smiles, small and slightly amused.

“Naturally.” They hold each other’s gaze for a few heavy moments. “We’re separated. Have been for months. It’s a bit complicated, perhaps it is a little more than complicated, but I don’t tell anyone about my marriage, John, I didn’t mean to withhold--”

“I’m not anyone,” John says, simply. His voice is quiet, soft, but his eyes are intense and sincere. They lock onto Sherlock’s, and he knows he could never possibly resist this. He moves forward a few more paces, his towel hanging low on his hips.

“No. Of course not.” They stand still, listing toward each other occasionally in their silence until suddenly John sweeps his arm around Sherlock’s waist, his other around his neck, and kisses him, sure and strong on the mouth. Sherlock starts in surprise before kissing him back, fitting their lips together more comfortably, swiping his tongue across John’s bottom lip for good measure. He runs his hands up and down John’s back, memorising the feel of his shoulders, spine, hips, arms. Then, a few seconds later, when his brain goes back online, he realizes what needs to be said.

“Don’t you, shouldn’t we talk… think about this?” Sherlock says, a stammer at best, and John smiles before capturing his mouth once again. Sherlock considers abandoning all other thought indefinitely when he feels John tug at his towel, pulling it from between their bodies and dropping it onto the floor next to them.

“Let’s keep at this instead. We’re both pants at talking.”

\----

Forty pieces of paper were spread on the floor in a tight rectangle in front of one Sherlock Holmes. They consisted mostly of case notes, photos of three particularly gruesome crime scenes, and newspaper clippings from the past five months. Three murders in five months. _Utterly fascinating_.

Cases had consumed Sherlock’s life for the past few years, but only since the wedding had they become his saving grace. Sebastian’s excitement over their new marriage had only lasted a short while, and despite Sherlock’s constant efforts to explain the importance of his work to his husband, Sebastian refused to understand. He cited the possible danger, the lack of interaction they had when Sherlock was knee-deep in evidence, and how frightening it was to know his husband was making enemies with some of London’s most wanted.

Sherlock had a hard time taking these concerns to heart when Sebastian spent thirteen hours a day at the office for three straight months.

They had been together too long for Sherlock to delude himself further. He knew he was destined for a life of solitude: a life with a spouse of convenience, not passion. When he was a child, he had never imagined finding someone who would tolerate him, much less love him romantically. Sebastian had his flaws, but Sherlock knew there was love in their relationship. He was certain that was something he would never find again. He was content to leave his concerns on the backburner. 

Forty pieces of paper were all that stood between him and the solution, the slip up, the one thing he had to be missing. He had been sitting there for at least twenty-four hours, a collection of teacups slowly building on the floor around his left knee, all of them cold. He kept adding to the pile if only to keep his legs from atrophying. Sebastian had come home from work late and left early the next morning, all while Sherlock thought. He knew he was close, he was sure of it. He just needed a little more time.

Sometime after the sun had set once again, Sherlock’s mobile began buzzing in his pocket. In a daze, Sherlock answered it; correctly assuming Lestrade was on the other end.

“This is it, Sherlock. I’ve got him cornered, thanks to you. No way out of this one.” Sherlock could practically hear the self-satisfied grin on Lestrade’s face, but he powered through to the interesting bit.

“Location?” Pause.

“Eh… Sherlock, it’s a bit…”

Sherlock scoffed. “What? Dangerous? I’ve been working for months on this case, you can’t possibly think I don’t know what sort of dangers are involved. Tell me where you are.”

Another pause followed. “As long as you know what you’re getting into.”

Sherlock quickly wrapped his scarf and jacket around his body, vibrating with excitement as he repeated the address aloud. He left his forty pieces of paper sprawled out on the floor.

\----

John presses Sherlock into the wall, trapping his cock between them, teasing him with the contact, and before he knows it, John is down on his knees in the hall, his hands rubbing circles into the skin of Sherlock’s thighs, his lips gently pressing kisses to Sherlock’s hip. He doesn’t waste any time, and only a few moments later, John’s mouth is around him and he feels the familiar sensation of pure _bliss_ ; a feeling that before tonight only accompanied the conclusion of a particularly thrilling case or, for a short time in his blurry third year of university, the rush of shooting up.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Sherlock hisses, almost silently, as John’s tongue circles the tip of his erection. He had been hard almost immediately after locking eyes with John in the hallway, flushed and anxious and angry but now so beautifully _his_. A part of him recognizes that he is stark naked, pressed up against the unsanitary wall next to the bathroom less than an hour after he was pressed just as tightly against Sebastian’s body in the alleyway; but that part of him is willing to overlook all that as long as John’s mouth and hands and _eyes_ keep touching him like this for at least another moment. Just then, John envelopes the head of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, sucking very briefly before his tongue flits across the slit. Sherlock moans again, this time loud enough for John to hear.

John seems to respond to this, groaning around Sherlock’s cock, sending a bolt of arousal straight up his body. He feels it at the very end of his fingertips, _dear god_ , he’s really never felt _anything_ quite like this, and he has a hard time holding back, not digging his hands into John’s hair, not grasping at his neck or shoulders, not rambling about how unexpected and beautiful and infuriatingly _kind_ John is.It takes a few more seconds of Sherlock awkwardly clutching at the walls on either side of him before John takes charge, capturing both Sherlock’s hands in his and leading them to his neck. Sherlock slides one up into John’s hair and wraps the other around the nape of his neck, rubbing his pointer finger slowly back and forth against the other man’s skin. John hums in approval.

John’s hands quickly get to work elsewhere as his mouth bobs up and down Sherlock’s shaft, pressing Sherlock’s thighs apart slowly, his eyes searching for approval. Sherlock doesn’t want to seem eager but he also knows he wants everything when it comes to John, so of _course_ he shifts his stance so his legs open a little wider, trying his hardest not to let his knees give out and go toppling into John. Somehow he manages it, and John smiles around his cock, and _Jesus, I’m ruined_ is the first thing that flashes across Sherlock’s mind.

“You want me to?” John asks, his tongue still barely touching Sherlock’s skin, but Sherlock takes a deep breath and grasps John’s hand firmly in his.

“I want to feel you,” he says, hoisting John up to a stand and fiddling with his belt immediately. John joins him after a brief pause, and soon they’re both naked, stumbling together to Sherlock’s bedroom because although making John come in his own armchair is _certainly_ something he will be doing in the near future, he wants to touch as much of John as possible and the bed is, undoubtedly, the optimal location.

“You’re amazing, y’know that?” John says once Sherlock is splayed over him, grinding against him, their bodies slotted together, John’s fingers threaded through the hair at the back of Sherlock’s head. “ _Christ_ , I can’t get enough of you.” Sherlock groans shamelessly into the side of John’s neck, sucking light marks up and down the skin that lies there. “You like the… the talking, do you?” John says, breathless from the quickening pace they’re setting together, the last minute pit-stop into the bathroom for lubrication per John’s suggestion only making things _achingly_ easier, and Sherlock almost loses it right there. It’s all too _good_.

“So… ob… _observant_ , John,” Sherlock manages instead, and _fuck_ if John doesn’t actually chuckle, and Sherlock can _feel_ it, deep in his chest, and for some reason that’s what does it and he’s coming, wet and unexpected between them. Before he has a moment to calm himself, he kisses John hard on the mouth, pinning one hand above his head and reaching down to pump John’s cock through his fist.

“ _Nngh_ ,” John whines into Sherlock’s mouth, and now it’s Sherlock turn to smile. John is beautiful like this, being taken apart with hands and kisses and the feel of Sherlock tight against him.

“God, _John_ ,” Sherlock whispers in his ear. John begins trembling, and then he’s coming, fucking Sherlock’s fist with fervor. Sherlock watches him intently; cataloguing everything about this moment until John lifts his head to press their lips together, and then all he can think is how utterly _right_ this all feels. It defies logic, and for the first time, it doesn’t bother Sherlock one bit.

They disentangle slowly, pausing to kiss a few times, and flop back down on the bed once they’re satisfactorily cleaned up. John rolls to his side, facing Sherlock and propping himself on his elbow.

“In the heap of scenarios I imagined for you and I tonight, I can’t say ‘finding out you’re married and blowing you in the hallway’ was the one I thought we’d land on,” John says, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Separated,” Sherlock says, lightly correcting, and John all but rolls his eyes.

“Yes, alright,” John sighs, “how long were you together, then?”

“Approximately ten years,” Sherlock says without a second thought, and John’s eyes practically bug out of his head. He sits up abruptly, and Sherlock suddenly feels as though he’s made an error.

“Ten. A decade. You’ve been with this person… wait. Who is it? Do I know this person? Have we met?” John begins to move away, scooting to the edge of the bed and reaching down to sweep his pants up from the floor.

“You’ve met him, yes, but John, it doesn’t--”

“Oh _jesus_ , Sherlock,” John groans, and Sherlock sees the moment it clicks. “It’s that Sebastian, isn’t it? I should… I should have known something was there I just didn’t--” he stops, pressing a hand over his mouth and clenching his eyes shut. Sherlock wants to reach out to him, ask him to come back to bed so he can explain everything, what everything _means_ to him, but John just backs away, his fist clenching hard at his side. “I didn’t think you--”

“John,” Sherlock says, quietly and quickly, rushing to pull John into his arms. He hugs him for a moment, unsure of what else to do, until John steps back. The look in his eyes is something resembling betrayal, and Sherlock feels a deep, painful fire burning in his heart. He would give his life to take this pain from John, and at that thought, he reels.

“Sherlock, this is all so… _fucking_ complicated,” John says, a whisper between them, and Sherlock shakes his head fiercely.

“No, it’s simple. So simple,” he repeats like a prayer, hands coming up to clutch at John’s arms, “Just give me a moment to explain. It’s over with Sebastian. Truly.” John shakes his head in response, but Sherlock forges ahead, the closest to desperate-and-rambling he has been in a long while. “I can’t explain what I feel for you, John. All I know is that being with you, it all felt so easy, so _right_. It never--” he stops, his voice breaking, “I’ve never felt this way before.”

John shuts his eyes, moving toward Sherlock only slightly. 

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” he sighs, and Sherlock lets himself reach forward, cupping John’s cheek in his hand. John allows it. “How d’you know it isn’t just… something new? Something exciting?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“I think you and I have enough excitement without the shagging, wouldn’t you say?” At that, he earns a smile from John and feels his confidence shine a little brighter. “John, I’m certain I feel nothing for Sebastian. You’ve been at the center of my attention as of late. Even Sebastian could see that.”

John’s smile fades. He shifts backward and Sherlock’s hand drops from his face.

“Could he?” John asks. Sherlock nods. “When was the last time you saw him, Sherlock? Where did you go tonight?” he says, not really asking.

Sherlock can’t think of anything to say.

John scoffs, collecting his clothes from around the room before stepping into the hall to find the rest. Sherlock follows him, standing silently in the doorway as he dresses rapidly.

“I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, after work,” John says, pulling his sweater over his head. “Get your life sorted before then, Sherlock, and we’ll talk about,” he gestures between them, “about this, _us_ and--” he stops, clearly flustered. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he says brusquely, exiting the flat.

Sherlock blinks a few times before turning to the bed. He stares at the rumpled sheets and tries to feel nothing.

\--------

Sherlock woke with a start, his throat too dry to emit a noise. He surveyed his surroundings and found Sebastian sitting opposite him in an old, dingy hospital chair. When did he get to the hospital?

“Evening,” Sebastian whispered glumly, his eyes barely open. Again, Sherlock attempted to speak to no avail. He heard Sebastian’s laugh and immediately cringed. “Wow, he’s _actually_ speechless. It’s a fucking _miracle_!” If ever a smile were cruel, Sebastian would have managed it just then.

“Seb,” Sherlock said, a quiet hiss. Sebastian laughed again, a deep and unkind noise.

“No, no. You don’t get to talk anymore. You don’t get--” his voice broke, and he cleared his throat before continuing, “I’m going to speak, and you don’t get to give me excuses, Sherlock. Clear?”

Sherlock nodded. Sebastian let his head fall, his eyes tired and red, his shirt rolled up to his elbows, his tie hanging over the arm of his chair.

“I’ve been here almost two days, Sherlock. Not knowing if you were gonna wake up, if you--” he shook his head, blinking the moisture from his eyes. “It’s all too much, Sherlock. I can’t do this shit anymore. It’s way too much.”

“I had him, Sebastian,” Sherlock said quietly. Sebastian scoffed.

“No. Lestrade had him, Sherlock. You were… _deluding_ yourself as usual.”

Sherlock shook his head again. It was practically a continuous motion. His mind was full to the brim of responses, screaming shrilly through his brain, but it all felt bottled up, trapped inside. The frustration of it was enough to drive him up the wall, and while he battled himself inwardly, Sebastian watched him in irritated fascination.

“Sherlock, do you understand what I’m telling you?” Sebastian’s voice had softened. Sherlock looked him in the eye, perhaps for the first time since waking.

“You’re leaving me,” he said, matter-of-factly. Sebastian chewed on the inside of his lip. He paused for a few beats.

“This isn’t out of the blue.” His voice no longer wavered. “We both know that, don’t we?” Sherlock watched him for a moment.

“I suppose we do, yes. If you’re intent on giving up this easily, well then, _by all means_ ,” he said, practically a growl, and almost immediately regretted it, knew it came from a deep and bitter place in his heart. It felt as though his heart was breaking, and spewing emotional bile was its last act before giving up entirely. Sebastian balked.

“You’ve got to be _bloody_ kidding, Sherlock. Don’t be a child. We’ve tried. We’ve--” he stopped, heaving a sigh, “We’ve tried, Sherlock. Your line of work is simply too dangerous for me, and I’m no longer interested in… I just can’t, Sherlock.” Sebastian stood abruptly. Sherlock felt panic rising in his throat.

“You can’t even say it.” Sebastian began walking toward the door. “We’ve made so much progress, haven’t we? From the days of barely being able to look at each other when we have emotional discussions; here we are, you walking out in vague terms. Ah, how refreshing.” Sherlock could feel his fingers numbing, his heart-rate rising. It was happening: he was losing everything.

Sebastian stopped in the doorway, straightening his coat on his shoulders.

“I’ll call your GP for regular checkups, to make sure you’re faring alright. I’ll hire some movers to get your things out of the flat, once you find a new place, that is. We’ll talk soon.” Sebastian paused, his expression unchanging. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“Sebastian!” Sherlock yelled as Sebastian walked out the door. He breathed steadily through his nose, attempting to calm his heart down to resting pace. After a few minutes he turned to look at that old, dingy chair. The two stab wounds at his side throbbed, and Sherlock clutched the thin blanket draped over him.

Closing his eyes and resting his head on the pillow behind him, he hoped that soon he would feel nothing. 


	6. Chapter 6

“I was relieved you called,” Sebastian says, idly picking at the food on his plate. Sherlock stares at him, nodding after a few beats.

“I confess relationships are not my specialty but I’m not entirely in the dark, Sebastian,” Sherlock says, catching the other man’s eye and seeing the rare yet obvious vulnerability playing on his face. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to engage in sexual acts with you and not follow up the next morning to explain.” Sebastian raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock’s eyes clench shut.

Sherlock hadn’t slept a wink the previous night. After John’s sudden departure, he managed to throw his dejected body into his armchair and become completely lost in thought. The first few hours proved unproductive, but around seven in the morning, the vivid and visceral memory of John’s mouth, John’s hands, John against him, John _underneath_ him, made the answer clear. He phoned Sebastian after another hour, inviting him to lunch at an up and coming Mediterranean restaurant near their old flat. _Sebastian’s_ flat.

“M’not sure what you’re trying to say,” Sebastian replies. Sherlock shakes his head, emitting a short bark of laughter.

“I realize I’m not being clear.” He pauses, fingering his napkin beneath the table. “It can’t work, Sebastian. What happened last night was far too hasty, not to mention the product of leftover feelings of intimacy and continued, yet uncontrollable, mutual attraction. But it won’t happen again.” Sherlock feels the thrum of his heart against his ribcage and wonders if anyone ever gets used to this sort of ache.

 “I _know_ you felt what I felt last night,” Sebastian counters, thrusting his finger across the table in accusation. Sherlock shakes his head.

“Don’t make assumptions,” he bites, trying to keep his calm, “especially not _incorrect_ ones.” _Taking the high road is over-rated,_ he thinks as Sebastian’s eyes widen.

“Oh, I see,” Sebastian says, smiling, “you’re gonna deny it now that your precious _John_ is in the picture, huh? He tell you how hung up on you he is?” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Do _not_ presume to think you know _anything_ of my relationship with John because _you do not_. While, in the past, I have attempted to leave him out of my relationship with you, it became clear to me last night that they cannot be separated, in fact they are frighteningly related, and while you seem to be convinced that you can win me back with accusations and emotional guilt, I know that what we had was a fragment of love, Sebastian.” Sherlock hears Sebastian scoff, but carries on. “I waited many years for you to be honest with yourself and leave me; admit that we were not suited for one another. Although I knew we cared for each other, it was not enough to make a partnership. But you never did. You proposed, and I thought perhaps everything had changed: that you had figured out you loved me, truly. And I was ready to jump in with you, especially after all the kind webs you spun. Then, some time after the wedding, I realized it was all a ploy to change me.”

Sebastian, before suppressed in the wake of Sherlock, suddenly cuts in.

“That’s _not_ true,” he insists. “I loved you, Sherlock.”

The irony of the past tense is not lost on Sherlock.

“You loved who you wanted me to be, Sebastian. What you believed you saw in me, but what never came to fruition. I don’t blame you for leaving me. It is only further evidence that our lives are not complimentary. You should seek happiness, do what you desire. And though only a short time has passed, what I have found with John is,” he pauses, taking in Sebastian’s even expression, “very promising. And rewarding.” Sherlock smiles for a moment, his own honesty surprising to him.

“You two’re together, then?” Sebastian asks as he pushes his untouched food around his plate. Sherlock hesitates.

“Not exactly.” He pulls gently at the tablecloth. _A cigarette would be heaven_ , he thinks. “I hope to be soon. I told him about you, about us, last night. His response was not _ideal_.” Sebastian laughs, quick and real, and Sherlock can’t help the wave of relief that floods him.

“Not surprising, I don’t think. You just told him? He’s been there for a while, I reckon.” Sherlock wants to back up, remembering immediately Sebastian’s previous comment about John’s feelings.

“To what are you referring? Did you _speak_ to John about this?” Sherlock asks. Sebastian shakes his head.

“’Course not. But he was quite _bristly_ when he came to collect that check. And his face when I told him I wanted to contact you? He’s one angry little fellow,” Sebastian huffs, folding his napkin over his lap as though he’s about to dig into his old, room temperature meal.

“In any case,” Sherlock continues, ignoring the blossoming warmth in his chest and Sebastian’s sour mood, “my future relationship with John is why this conversation is necessary, Sebastian. We simply cannot stay married.”

Sebastian is quiet for a long while, blinking slowly, his mouth closed in a soft line. When he does speak, his voice is uncharacteristically small.

“You love him.”

When their eyes meet across the table, Sherlock nods, even though it wasn’t a question.

\------

“It’s _our_ flat, Seb,” Sherlock bit out, past the growing wad of desperation clung to his larynx. He’d never felt particularly strong about this flat, but if Sebastian meant to break his heart and make him box up all his equipment on top of it, Sherlock wasn’t willing to concede without at least something of a battle.

“C’mon, Sherlock. Let’s not kid ourselves. What rent have you paid for this place in the years we’ve lived here? Twenty quid? I’m trying to make this simple,” Sebastian retorted, obviously frustrated. He rubbed at his jaw, attempting to massage out the kink that no doubt plagued the bottom half of it. Stress did that to him. Sherlock fumed.

“I apologize for not bringing in millions when I solve a murder case, but that’s not really the point.” Sherlock rose from his chair and wondered if anything in this flat was really his. Sebastian had insisted on binning most of his possessions when they bought the place, and Sherlock hadn’t protested. After all, he didn’t see what would split up two perfectly suited men who didn’t mind each other’s company but generally stayed out of each other’s way.

“I _told_ you I didn’t want you doing that,” Sebastian said pointedly, crooking a finger at him and widening his eyes.

“You don’t control me, Seb. Maybe that’s the problem,” Sherlock sighed dejectedly and re-seated himself in the chair.

“Sherlock, we’re not getting into it. I’m not in the mood for a tiff.”

“No, no. God forbid we actually discuss _my_ thoughts on the issue.” Sherlock fiddled with the string of fabric that had detached itself from the arm of the chair. Sebastian groaned.

“I’m not talking about this _again_ , Sherlock,” he said, pushing himself up to a stand. “I came by to let you know that the movers will be by this afternoon, and after I get the all clear from you on the new flat, we’ll put a little space between us. I’ve got a few big business trips coming up, international, and I reckon it’ll be better this way.” Sebastian deigned to smile while Sherlock continued to seethe.

“Of course, it would be absurd of me to expect you to talk about our marriage when all you’re set on doing is abandoning it.” Sherlock felt as though he was clinging to a sinking ship, ignoring all logic and forcing something back into place that he had spent years learning to simply _tolerate_.

“Why do you do this?” Sebastian asked, his voice wracked with exhaustion.

Sherlock fell silent then, trying to spin his thoughts, excuses and pleas into something reasonable. He came up short.

“I had the papers drawn up,” Sebastian said quickly, trying to fill the blank space between them. Sherlock’s stomach dropped. “M’not saying I’m sure about all this yet. It’s just an option. And right now, I’m thinkin’,” he stopped, running a hand through his hair, “I’m thinkin’ it might be best for us, Sherlock.”

“Best,” Sherlock recited skeptically.

“Healthier, then,” he offered with a sigh. “Not just for me. I can’t stand it when you don’t eat. You can’t live on pure adrenaline and bloodlust, Sherlock.” He hitched his hand to his hip, pushing back his jacket. “Or maybe it’s me that can’t.”

“ _Bloodlust_ ,” Sherlock repeated, unsettled.

“We both know it’s true.” Sebastian slumped down on their pristine sofa, barely moving the rock-hard cushion. Sherlock watched him break down slowly, letting his head fall into his hands and wiping at his eyes. Seb was never one for tears. Sherlock used to admire that. “I just need… I need time,” he choked out, and Sherlock nodded.

“Give me an afternoon. I’ll be out of your way.” Sherlock stood up once more and headed toward the bedroom.  He felt Sebastian’s eyes lingering on the back of his neck, but refused to engage any further. He had heard enough.

Later that day, Sebastian’s hired hands moved his boxes into Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He knew refusing what little money she had would be beneficial one day. That’s what he had told Sebastian, anyway. He didn’t find the irony of it particularly humorous.

\---------

Sherlock comes home to an empty flat, as he expected. He nestles himself in his armchair for the next few hours, losing track of the minutes until John comes home. The sound of the door tentatively opening snaps Sherlock out of his head, and he feels some semblance of confidence after the hours of quiet thought. That is, until he catches sight of John.

It is clear Sherlock is not the only one who hadn’t slept the night before. _Bags under the eyes. Shoulders hunched. Pale skin. Bloodshot eyes. Strained breathing._ John appears simply miserable, yet Sherlock is delighted by his mere presence. _This is absurd_ , Sherlock thinks as he feels the heavy pound of his heart against his ribs. John’s expression remains neutral, if not a bit annoyed. He peels off his jacket, hanging it on the door and taking a seat in his chair facing Sherlock.

“Afternoon,” John says, although it’s nearing the evening. Sherlock nods, a slight smile quirking his lips.

“How was work?” Sherlock asks. John barks out a laugh.

“Never heard you ask that before.” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock says, tucking his legs beneath him, “it’s what people ask, isnt it? At the end of the day.” John holds his gaze, nodding slowly.

“Sherlock. I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock interrupts, and he sees John’s jaw shift.

“Alright, I’m going to start with what I’m thinking since you have--”

“John, I would very much like to voice my feelings first--”

“—some trouble talking about things like this I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“—because I know you are anxious about discussing your emotions,” Sherlock finishes as they eye each other suspiciously.

“Hold on. You think _I’m_ the one who is uncomfortable?” John asks.

“Don’t play dumb, John,” Sherlock starts, prompting a bitter chuckle from the other man. “Neither of us is particularly pleased with the conversation at hand. Nor are we skilled in the practical application of the subject matter.”

“Now h-hold on, Sherlock,” John says, huffing out a stuttering breath. Sherlock remains unmoved.

“I believe I’ve fallen in love with you, John,” Sherlock says, mostly because something like that needs to be said, and Sherlock is not prepared to begin yet _another_ relationship completely devoid of communication. John stares at him for a long moment, mouth hanging open. He smiles then, and Sherlock feels as though his heart has simultaneously been hollowed out and filled to the brim in the span of a second.

“G-good,” John stammers out, still smiling. “That’s… That’s good, Sherlock.”

“Indeed.” Although he feels short of breath, Sherlock carries on. “There are some things that need to be discussed, however.” John’s smile fades, is replaced with a look of determination.

“Yes. That.”

“My marriage has ended. Both legally and emotionally. Technically it will be a few months before the divorce is finalized, but the papers have been signed and are on their way to, well, Mycroft will most likely speed the process along, I suppose, so who knows--”

“Sherlock, the point,” John interrupts, and Sherlock stops, takes a breath, and begins again.

“I met with Sebastian earlier. A lengthy but long overdue conversation was had, and we mutually agreed to the dissolution of our marriage,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly, desperately trying to achieve brevity. Nevertheless, he feels the words bursting from within him. “I have absolutely no idea why any rational human being would engage in a relationship with someone such as myself, especially following the end of my _only_ other relationship, but here I am, John.”

His smile is tight. He feels the pounding of his heart return. John just watches him.

“My marriage had its happy moments, but it was not by any means a relationship I wish to replicate. Sebastian and I met soon after I began university, and although he exhibited clear signs of internalized homophobia, I’m afraid I fell in love with him before the end of my first year. We stayed together through my ill-fated dalliance with heroin in my third year and both completed our degrees before renting a flat together near his office. He only revealed to his friends and co-workers he was living with a man shortly before we married a few years ago, at his insistence. I went along with it, partly because I loved him, and partly because--” Sherlock pauses, chewing at the inside of his lip. His hands shake at his side. He isn’t about to admit John was right, but this whole ‘honest-admission-regarding-his-feelings’ nonsense is proving to be a bit of a trip-up. John leans forward in his chair, lightly resting his hand over Sherlock’s knee.

“Sherlock, you don’t need to--” John begins, but Sherlock won’t allow it.

“No, John, I must. I would like you to know why my relationship with Sebastian was unhealthy, why I felt the need to stay for so long, and certainly why I know that what you and I have is,” Sherlock swallows, looking John in the eye, “different. And very important.” John retracts his hand, sitting back and nodding.

“Alright.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Go on then.” Sherlock extends his leg forward between them, sliding it up against John’s.

“Sebastian and I were incompatible in almost every way. At first, passion and genuine affection provided a temporary wall between us and those issues, but as time went on they became incessant and painful. When I began consulting with Lestrade, some time before our wedding, Sebastian was livid. He resented the pride I took in my work and consequently distanced himself from me. I threw myself into my cases because that is how I function. I was content to have a partner who felt even _some_ semblance of love for me because I believed no one else in the world could possibly tolerate a relationship with me. I put up with his emotional abuse and disregard for my thoughts and feelings. But I was not innocent. I agreed to marry him though I knew we were not happy. I later discovered he expected me to stop working following the wedding. Naturally, I would never do such a thing.

“The last straw, as it were, was a particularly dangerous call from Lestrade that resulted in my admission to hospital with two stab wounds in my side,” as the words continue to pour from his mouth, Sherlock frees his shirt from his trousers and displays his set of three-inch long scars. John creases his brow, but continues listening. “We were on our last leg long before this incident, but he was always concerned about the threat my cases could potentially cause. This only confirmed it. He told me he was leaving soon after I woke in hospital. Moved out a few weeks later.

“John. I simply cannot swear to you that my feelings for Sebastian are completely eradicated. But I believe from the moment you told me you were content with running around solving crimes with me mere hours after an attempt on your life,” Sherlock says, smiling widely, and he hears John laugh in response, “I knew that you could be that person.” John arches an eyebrow.

“What person? A person who clearly has no idea what they’re doing in life?” John asks, shifting once again in his chair. Sherlock’s expression remains even.

“The person I did not believe existed until you entered my life, John. You are the person who does not simply tolerate me.” Sherlock speaks as slowly and deliberately as he can manage. “You are the person who chooses to care for me out of absolutely no obligation. My habits may irritate you, and I may have led you into a few precarious situations,” he pauses for imminent laughter there, “not to mention my intense dedication to work that often leaves you exhausted, hungry and frustrated. But you’ve stayed, John. You’ve come back to let me explain myself. You’ve listened to me blather on about Sebastian for approximately seven minutes and have remained calm, other than when I mentioned my heroin blip, but that’s a topic for another time, surely, John.” Sherlock avoids John’s eyes for a stretch, as the heavy admission makes his heart clench in his chest. He breathes air into his lungs and looks up to see John searching for his eyes.

“I stayed, Sherlock. Yes, I did. It makes no sense, not to me, not to you, but for some reason,” John stops, clearing trying to force the words from his mouth, “you _are_ worth it to me.”

“As are you,” Sherlock says. John cocks his head slightly, and Sherlock adds, “To me.”

They both fall silent, small grins on each of their faces. John leans forward after a moment, letting his leg drag slowly along Sherlock’s. Sherlock barely has time to widen his smile before John captures his mouth in a kiss, gentle and a bit awkward due to the reach between them. Sherlock aims to fix that, lifting out of his armchair and seating himself directly on John’s lap. He needs to crane his neck down quite a ways in this position, but the opportunity to snog in John’s chair isn’t something Sherlock can pass up twice in twenty-four hours. Luckily, John seems to agree, and groans eagerly into Sherlock’s mouth.

After thoroughly bruising their lips for a few minutes, the angles get the better of them, and they break apart, frustrated and panting. It takes Sherlock less than a second to slide out of the chair and onto his knees in front of John.

“ _Jesus_ ,” John whispers, undoing his belt while Sherlock mouths at the hard line of his erection through his jeans. He meets John’s eyes, awestruck.

“John,” Sherlock says, lips pressed to the soft inside of John’s now-naked thigh. John cards a hand through Sherlock’s curls, biting his lip in a smile. A red flush paints his cheeks, and if Sherlock weren’t so keen on getting John’s cock in his mouth, he would be kissing the living daylights out of him all over again. The intensity of his want for this man is unprecedented, and to Sherlock, frighteningly spectacular. He blinks the fog in his brain away and re-focuses on the task at hand.

John lifts his hips as Sherlock peels him out of his pants, groaning audibly when Sherlock ghosts a breath over his cock. Sherlock takes his time, teasing John with kisses, sucking as many marks as possible into his thighs. Sherlock delights in every single noise John emits, soaking in the gasps, moans and whines before finally taking John into his mouth. The sound he makes then is nothing short of blissful.

Sherlock quickly works out what John likes: fast, hard, and _loud_. After sensing John’s self-restraint in not fucking his face right from the get-go, Sherlock sucks mercilessly, up and down, swirling his tongue over the head before pulling off and swallowing him down again in one swift motion. John pants heavily, curling his hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock moans loudly around his cock, reaching his free hand down to press against his own straining erection. At this, John snaps.

“I want,” John begins, pushing at Sherlock’s shoulders until he frees his mouth. “I want to be inside you, Sherlock,” he says, heaving a sigh and skimming a hand over his cock.

Sherlock reels at this, reaching without hesitation to remove his own pants so this _brilliant_ suggestion can come to fruition as quickly as possible. He hears John practically giggle.

“Reckon that’s a yes,” John says, his cheeks rosy with laughter and arousal. Sherlock wastes no time in reseating himself in John’s lap, perfectly happy to kiss the smile off of his face. He grinds their erections against one another. “ _Fuck_ ,” John moans, breaking them apart. Sherlock hums in agreement, rocking his hips harder to coax another groan out of John. “Fuck, _Sherlock_ , wanna fuck you,” he says, and Sherlock bites his lip _hard_ to keep down the scream.

John seems to notice. Suddenly, he fists Sherlock’s cock, squeezing gently and leaning down to swirl his tongue around the tip. Sherlock arches his back, breath caught in his chest and hands flying to grab the armrests.

“Wanna hear you,” John says, and Sherlock feels fit to burst. Shoving John’s hand away, Sherlock takes both their aching cocks in his hand, applying pressure root to tip.

“ _Fuck_ me, John,” he moans, bordering on a desperate whine. John groans embarrassingly loudly and shoves their mouths together so he can fuck his tongue directly down Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock can barely keep up; all of his nerve endings seem to be firing. He’s reasonably positive this is the most turned on he has ever been. Having John against him, all over him, devouring him like this is overwhelming.

“Tell me you have condoms,” John whispers against Sherlock’s throat as he leans down to suck a red mark into his skin. Sherlock hesitates, but luckily John backtracks. “Hold on, I’ve got a couple in my room.”

Sherlock sits in the armchair while he’s gone, sucking in a few calming breaths for posterity. John returns alarmingly quickly, dropping to his knees in front of his chair and spreading Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock gasps, moaning quietly.

“Sherlock, you,” John starts, before deciding to take Sherlock in his hand, lazily rubbing up and down. “You’re beautiful.”

Sherlock cries out brokenly as John’s mouth descends on him without mercy. Lost in the sensation, he hardly notices John spread his legs further apart, sneaking a hand up to cradle his balls. John’s pointer finger rubs teasingly against his entrance, and Sherlock sighs as he feels the near-intrusion. It  _has_  been awhile since he had enjoyed anal sex. With John, however, it’s almost all he can think about. John being inside him, filling him, taking all of him and loving every second of it. He told John he’d never felt this way before, and looking down at him right in this moment, he knows nothing has ever been closer to the truth.

Sherlock pushes lightly against John’s finger, and John frees his mouth with a moan.

“You want that?” he whispers, voice and eyes dark. Sherlock nods.

“Do it,” Sherlock says, skimming a hand over the side of John’s face. John smiles, clicking open the bottle of lubricant and pouring some over a few of his fingers. He pumps Sherlock’s cock a couple times, slowly and with plenty of pressure, before sinking lower and pressing a finger inside Sherlock, up to the knuckle. Sherlock winces slightly, sense memory telling him to relax as much as possible.

“How’s that feel, huh?” John asks, licking playfully over the tip of Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock grunts.

“ _Ungh_ ,” he forces out, nodding, a warm blush creeping up his chest. John begins moving within him, gentle strokes, in and out, teasing his rim a few times before adding another finger. He scissors them when there’s enough room, and before long, Sherlock feels mostly pleasure in lieu of discomfort. John curls his fingers lightly and presses Sherlock’s prostate in the process. “More,” Sherlock gasps, sliding a little further out of the chair and fucking himself on John’s fingers.

“Yeah,  _God_ , Sherlock you look gorgeous like this,” John says in a rush before beginning to add a third finger. He can sense John’s impatience by the edge to his voice, and abruptly sits up.

“Bedroom,” Sherlock says, grabbing John’s hand and leading him there immediately. John goes along willingly with a scoff, as he does. Sherlock throws himself across the bed. John laughs.

“You and your bed,” he says, shaking his head. “Won’t let me shag you in the hallway or my chair,” he continues, circling the bed, stark naked, “next you’ll say the kitchen table is off-limits.” Sherlock snags John’s hand, pulling him down until he’s next to him on the bed. He presses a kiss to John’s injured shoulder.

“Disgusting. We eat there.” John literally _glares_ , so Sherlock grabs the other man’s still-hard cock in a desperate attempt to divert attention. Not-so-miraculously, it works perfectly. John groans, snaking a hand around Sherlock’s waist to help pull himself into the nook below Sherlock’s arm. After a few silent and blissful seconds, John pushes Sherlock onto his back, hovering above him.

“This from the man who experiments on human eyes at _said_ table,” John says before placing himself between Sherlock’s knees and reaching to retrieve the condom. Sherlock scoffs.

“Precisely. _Disgusting_. Why make love--” he pauses, his body seizing when John simultaneously takes his erection in hand and licks a stripe up the underside.

“Finish your thought,” John says, pressing a finger into Sherlock to make sure he’s ready. It seems redundant, but Sherlock doesn’t mind John bossing him around right now. However, he does find attempting to form sentences displeasing.

“I, uh,” he clears his throat, watching intently as John finds the lubricant once again. “I don’t believe we should be eating, experimenting and having sexual relations all in the same place, John.” John laughs again, the red in his cheeks back with a vengeance.

“Of course,” he says, agreeable in his arousal, sliding up Sherlock’s body to bring them together in a kiss. John adjusts himself with one hand, pressing into Sherlock slowly. He uses the other hand to comb fingers through Sherlock’s hair, whispering an endless litany of “oh _god_ , Sherlock” into his ear until they’re both comfortable enough to move.

“Go slow,” Sherlock says, quietly. John nods.

The room is mostly silent, save for a few gasps and the sound of their kissing. Sherlock loses track of time, caught up in the press of his heels against the small of John’s back, in the feel of John’s hands skimming up his sides as gazes down at Sherlock lovingly. Sherlock isn’t used to any of it, and he finds himself trying to catalogue everything.

“M’close,” John says, his hips stuttering. Sherlock groans, wrapping a hand around his own erection. “You close?” John asks.

Sherlock nods. “Mmmm,” he says. John shakes his head.

“Say it,” he says, shoving Sherlock’s hand away to fuck his fist over the other man’s cock. Sherlock almost loses it right then; Sebastian never committed this much to making him come, not _once_.

“ _M’gonna come,_ ” he manages, small and weak, sounding more fucked-out by the minute.

John hums, unsatisfied, “C’mon.”

“I’m gonna come, John, _please_ ,” he whines, beyond shame. He sees John’s wide smile through the fog of his oncoming orgasm.

Sherlock comes all over his stomach, the internal buzz spreading throughout his body for the next few minutes at least. John shoves inside him a couple times while Sherlock begins to come down, collapsing immediately afterward so they are chest to chest. John breathes heavily into Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock pets a shaky hand up and down the misty skin of his back.

“Jesus _Christ_ , you’re marvelous,” John says with a laugh. Sherlock hasn’t the energy to refute the claim; to point out that it is, in fact, John who is marvelous, selfless, beautiful, kind and a magnificent _beast_ in bed. Instead, he settles on pressing a kiss to John’s injured shoulder, and earns a gentle grunt in response.

When they finally decide to part and clean up, it is with peppered kisses, quiet laughter and warm touches. The moment they’re back in bed, Sherlock can’t help but point it out.

“This is very different for me, John. I can’t say I’ve ever encountered this level of intimacy with another human being before,” he says. John looks mildly confused.

“You were married, Sherlock.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock says, incapable of reigning in his tone. John brushes it off with a roll of his eyes.

“Enlighten me,” John says, shoving another pillow under his head.  

“Sebastian deliberately scolded me for talking in bed. He was also never fond of eye contact, or openly acknowledging that we were participating in anal sex,” Sherlock says.

“Not a fan of dirty talk, I reckon,” John jokes, but Sherlock just shakes his head. John reaches to drape an arm across Sherlock’s hip. He leans in to kiss him, slow and sweet, and Sherlock’s skin tingles. John pulls away after a moment, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek for good measure. “Didn’t know what he was missing,” he says, low and rumbly into Sherlock’s ear.

As John pulls the sheet over the both of them, Sherlock can’t help but think he’s the one who didn’t know what he was missing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :) :) :)


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